


The Dead Queen

by VIII (Valkyrien)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Altered Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An Uncrowned King Returns From Exile To Fight A War Against Winter And Claim His Throne, And Rickon Stark In His Breakout Role As Himself, F/M, Gen, Gilly Tarly As Impeccable And Beyond Reproach, In A World Where Men Have Traditionally Made Very Poor Life Choices, In A World Where The Others Are Recognised As A Priority Threat, In A World Where The Stark Sisters Have Been Restored To Winterfell But Their Brothers Remain Lost, Lady Commander Of The Night's Watch Ygritte As Very Much Alive And In Charge, Lord Commander Of The Night's Watch Jon Snow Appearing As Himself, One Man Rallies An Army To Him In Hopes Of Saving The North, Ser Samwell Tarly As Indispensable To The War Effort, Stannis Baratheon As A Sorely Tried Man, Starring Ser Davos Seaworth As Hand Of The King, The Choices Of One Woman Will Decide The Fate Of Two Kingdoms, This Is Her Story, This Is Not His Story, This Is Not His Story Either, This Summer Shireen Baratheon Is - The Dead Queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7089949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis Baratheon, self-proclaimed King of Westeros, has restored the Stark sisters to Winterfell after a long and brutal campaign. Now, with the threat of the Others looming over the North, Stannis has called all possible allies to the Wall in preparation for the War that is sure to come.</p>
<p>With him is his daughter Shireen, the princess groomed for queenship as Stannis' sole heir and all that remains of his family in the wake of the War of Kings.</p>
<p>In a war against the dead and those who raise them, it is she who will decide the fate of the world beyond the Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://valkyrien.tumblr.com/post/145620768529/they-have-come-we-would-have-come-sooner-but) 

 

 

 

   It has been years, and Shireen is by now used to men, to soldiers, to travel and warfare and encampment. She even believes that she is growing used to the harshness of the North, for all the time she has spent here, her father refusing to allow her to leave his side or be taken to some safer harbour as he has fought - first for the succession after her Uncle's untimely death, and to defeat the false kings, and now to stand with the North against the threat of the Others.

 

 

   It is unsettled still, this land of snow and ice, though the ladies Stark have been restored to Winterfell by Shireen's father at long last after bloody campaigning, there is yet no King in the North, though Stannis has offered to recognise Lord Commander of the Night's Watch Jon Snow by virtue of his Stark blood, and ally with him for a successful seceding of the North once it is whole again and purified. Shireen understands that the Lord Commander does not shy from the task out of fear or from lacking a sense of duty - barring perhaps her own father, he is the most dutiful, honourable man she has yet met in her travels through the realm, though she sees that it weighs heavy upon him - but that he feels his claim is inferior to that of his brothers, the true-born Starks.

 

 

   The Lord Commander is the only Stark even in part that Shireen has ever met, and while she believes that he could make a fine king should it ever come to pass, she knows that although it is inconvenient for their common cause that there is no king of their own to rally the North to, Stannis respects Jon Snow's choice not to take up a crown he feels he could only ever be the caretaker of, and while it is certain that they would now be in a better position to stand against the threat from beyond the Wall if there had been a true and fixed rallying point for the North, still, many have come.

 

 

   Indeed, today further reinforcements are expected to report to Stannis and the Lord Commander and their assembled council of Northern heads of house, for word was sent from the Bay that Davos and the ships sent to bring the reinforcements had docked, and today the party was sighted by wildling scouts along the track, and Shireen has been anxious over it, not only for the return of Davos after his lengthy mission away to secure this aid, but to see who comes, for she knows that along with Stormlanders and mined dragonglass from Dragonstone, Davos has also been to that much-feared stone isle of Skagos, bound to bring warriors and yet more obsidian to arm the forces Stannis and Jon Snow have amassed along the Wall, for there is an abundance of both in that dread place.

 

 

   Shireen has gone out to watch them arrive, has waited all day to hear that they are sighted near to the castle where they and their cargo are to be received, where the war council will take place and both forces and dragonglass likely redistributed along the Wall to arm every keep appropriately.

 

 

   She stands atop the wall that must be breached to enter the castle and sees Davos first through the thick grey-white of the light here and the flurries of snow that the wind kicks up to obscure sight, and it warms her heart to see him appear weary but whole, for her father asks much of him but Davos has never complained of his duties, has always served Stannis and his family unquestioningly, loyally, not balking even at being asked to sail famously treacherous seas to treat with famously fell people.

 

 

   He rides through the gates in a throng of them, and Shireen cannot help her smile as she quickly darts along the wall and across the open walkway that encircles the yard so that she can see properly, so that she will have no difficulty running down the stairs to greet him once he and his party are fully within the walls, though there are so many she now sees that some must inevitably remain beyond the walls, for Davos has brought far more southern soldiers than Shireen had thought were left to call, but he has also brought a great host who are so different to the new southerners that they can be nothing but the much hoped-for Skagosi.

 

 

   No one hinders her as she makes her way to the railing by the stairway, indeed even now after so long by the Wall, travelling between the various keeps with her father, there are many who still shy from her, so both her status and her face mean that she stands at the first to welcome the newly-arrived.

 

 

   Shireen has seen much in her time following her father through the realm, and she has learnt much, but she has never seen such a thing as this, such folk as this - savages, these Skagosi, vile barbarians who speak only the Old Tongue, worse than wildlings, she has heard, blood of the First, consumers of their foes' flesh - and she sees that the men already assembled are uneasy with their arrival, are regarding them with fear and suspicion, but to Shireen's eyes these people, though they appear strange, are also strangely fair.

 

 

   Men and women she sees, strong and fierce, looking not enough like wildlings to be mistaken for them, with their painted faces, their arms and hands also marked, she sees, with runes and sinuous designs and sigils she cannot decipher, and even the braids of their hair are different to the styles she is accustomed to seeing, some with bones or silver in theirs, or dragonglass, and she cannot recognise all the furs she observes them clad in.

 

 

   “Fuckin' Skaggs,” she hears someone spit, another muttering,

 

 

   “Least we won' have to burn the dead no more - jus' feed 'em ta this lot!” and another asks in an undertone,

 

 

   “Ain' one of 'em s'posed t' be a Stark?”

 

 

   Shireen believes there is some truth to the last, that the youngest Stark child was sent to Skagos for his protection when the wars began, and remained there, that it was he whom the Lord Commander sent word to of the Others, asking for warriors and obsidian, if the black isle could spare either, for aid.

 

 

   They have come, so the Stark must live, must be with them, be raised enough in their estimation to have mustered so great a force to come here bearing so much dragonglass to arm those who yet have none, but Shireen does not see a clear leader among these Skagosi. She sees that there are southerners who have ridden close to Davos, who look to be the leaders of their men, but among the Skagosi no one individual looks to Shireen to be obviously their head - even among those who flank Davos on the right there is no obvious hierarchy that Shireen can make out, and she wonders whether perhaps they display status in ways that she is simply not used to noting.

 

 

   She can see Davos squint against the grey-bright light for a familiar face, and he has yet to see her, but she cannot call to him - she will go down to greet him properly, once he has been received by her father and the Lord Commander, she is no longer a child who may run as she pleases to throw her arms about an old friend, however dear - but he does see her father, for Stannis strides from the great door with the Lord Commander and a few others of the council in tow, and he calls in greeting,

 

 

   “Ser Seaworth! Long have we awaited you!”

 

 

   Shireen can see Davos' fatigue in his dismount, but he kneels before her father all the same and his voice is clear and strong when he replies,

 

 

   “Your Grace, we would have come sooner but for the storms.”

 

 

   “But come you have, and with better result than we could have hoped for,” Stannis says appraisingly, casting a hard eye over those assembled, and addressing them,

 

 

   “You are all of you welcome - I will receive your commanders within, and we will discuss the matter of obsidian distribution, and which strongholds require reinforcement. In the meantime, you may camp where it please you. Come, Davos, we have much to speak of - ”

 

 

   Shireen takes advantage of the slight confusion that is some of the southerners breaking from the crowd to follow her father, some of the Skagosi who had flanked Davos calling to their people to relay Stannis' words and then going to greet the Lord Commander, and she flies down the stairs and darts in to intercept Davos before he can disappear inside in her father's wake, crying,

 

 

   “Davos!” to gain his attention, and then throwing caution and propriety to the winds and cutting across the path of one of the Skagosi who moves fluidly aside so that she can throw herself into Davos' ready embrace and be swung as he laughs,

 

 

   “Princess Shireen! Oh, it is good to see you well!”

 

 

   He settles her on her feet but takes another moment to release her, and she beams at him with joy for how well he looks, for she has been afraid for him, for all her faith in his abilities, and she clasps his hands tightly and tells him,

 

 

   “I am so relieved to see you safe!”

 

 

   “And I you, princess. We'll talk later, shall we? I mustn't keep your father waiting,” Davos says, eyes twinkling, and she laughs just to see him happy and lets him go, ushers him inside with waves of her hands and agrees,

 

 

   “No, of course - go, go, I shall see you later!” and he bows to her and then hastens after her father, the Lord Commander flashing her a quick smile as he goes, too, accompanied by some of the Skagosi and in deep conversation with them already, and Shireen is briefly embarrassed to have shown such lack of decorum in front of all these people whose first impression of the princess will now be that she is a silly girl, but then she takes hold of herself and decides no, she _is_ princess, and it is her right to greet her father's Hand when he is so successfully returned from so dangerous an appointment, and she will do so as she sees fit.

 

 

   She will not be cold and distant as her mother was - it will win her no love, and she is already unable to win it purely on the strength of being an appealing sight. No, if she is to be a good queen one day, she must be herself, and what she is before all else, is dutiful, but kind. That is what she will be known for. She will not cloak herself in artifice and disdain out of fear. She will be seen to appreciate those who serve her and her father so well. That is all the hope she has that perhaps, one day, the sight of her will gladden the hearts of her people rather than twist their mouths with distaste and their hearts with wariness.

 

 

   She keeps her head high and her smile steady as she looks upon those who have come to the aid of the North, and she does it even when the southern forces who notice her seem torn between gawking and flinching, although the truth of her illness and how it appears must now be common knowledge throughout the realm, and she takes care to also smile graciously upon the Skagosi who are to a one busy removing themselves from within the yard, no doubt to camp beyond the walls somewhere on their own where they will not have to listen to abuse such as she heard just before when they have proven nothing in coming here but that they are noble enough to do so even though the threat of the Others does not actively concern them at present.

 

 

   A few of them appear to notice her, but they give her no more than cursory glances, and she almost feels her smile slip at the realisation, the shock of it, and she casts her mind back to a few moments before when she nearly ran down one of them in her haste to greet Davos and she thinks that he also neither flinched nor balked to look upon her face, merely moved so she would not collide with him, and Shireen has no answer for it.

 

 

   So she does as she prefers to when there are things she does not know, and goes to seek solace among books and the comfort of their amassed wealth of knowledge, for even if they can give her no answer to her particular question, she is soothed still by their presence and their possibilities.

 

 

   Ser Tarly's quiet, studious presence she also finds soothing, and she is not surprised to find him among the books also, though she waves aside his rising to bow to her when she enters and greets him informally, with a smile.

 

 

   “Please, remain seated, Sam, you know I'll not stand on ceremony in this holy place,” she jokes, and his smile is nervous both for her insistence upon familiarity and her mild blasphemy, for it is true that her father no longer observes the faith of the Seven, or of the old gods, nor of the red god, or any, in fact, and Shireen herself has come to feel that only knowledge is truly sacred.

 

 

   “My lady,” he acknowledges, for he won't argue with her or tease her back, he's never quite been brave enough yet to try either even though she and Gilly, his lady and her lady's maid now for quite some time, have an easy and familiar friendship with one another, and Sam instead asks her,

 

 

   “How looked Ser Seaworth?”

 

 

   “Very well, Sam - I am so glad he has returned. And so successfully, too, you should see how many came with him,” Shireen says, sitting down by him to take a look at what he is reading,

 

 

   “And I believe we may now have enough dragonglass for all!”

 

 

   “I pray you are correct, my lady,” Sam replies heavily, casting a gloomy glance at the papers on the table - inventory sheets, Shireen sees, how many people they have and at which castles, where the most aid is required.

 

 

   “You will be presenting this at the council?” she asks him, and he nods, a shadow of haunting passing over his face, and Shireen reaches to place her hand over his in comfort for a moment, because Samwell Tarly is knighted now for having slain one of the Others, for being the one to discover the power of dragonglass to destroy them, and she knows that he likely better than most knows how difficult this war will be, and she also knows that valour in battle does not comes easily to him, and so she respects his decision to swear to her family even more, to remain here when once he had the chance to be away with Gilly and the children.

 

 

   “You will do well, Ser Tarly,” she tells him with conviction,

 

 

   “It will be well. I have faith in you, and so does my father.”

 

 

   “My lady, you know we can never thank you enough - ”

 

 

   “Please don't, Sam,” she begs him, smiling kind as she can and cutting him off for she knows what he will say,

 

 

   “It was only what was right. My father saw that, in the end. You know how well I love Gilly, and the children. You know I will do everything I can to keep them from harm. Whatever happens here, or along the Wall, I must remain by my father's side, that is my duty, but if things go poorly, you have my word I will send your family South, and I will see them safe under the protection of my cousin and Ser Seaworth's family.”

 

 

   “You are too kind, my lady,” Sam says, voice thick with emotion, and she presses his hand and then releases it, shaking her head.

 

 

   “Nonsense!” she insists promptly,

 

 

   “My first duty must be to my people, and I consider you and Gilly and the children my people. And I know how you fear for them, Sam, and how vital you are to the success of this War, with all your knowledge and experience. We rely on you greatly, and so it won't do to have you worrying for your family when you already carry such a burden of responsibility. It is only proper that I help alleviate your concerns where I can.”

 

 

   “When all this is over,” Sam says gravely, holding her gaze,

 

 

   “I know they'll write books about you, my lady, when you are a great queen, and I hope you'll let me write the first.”

 

 

   She can't help but laugh at that, although she sees only utter sincerity in his face, but she composes herself so he won't think she mocks him, and takes care to let him see all her gratitude for his loyalty and his pure, sweet nature.

 

 

   “Ser Tarly, I would be honoured to have the great scholar who discovered how we might defeat the Others write of my exploits, pale as they no doubt shall in comparison to your own,” she tells him, all truth beneath the courtly manner, and then she smiles at him and pats his hand again and takes up one of the papers upon which he has written of how dire the need at Long Barrow is for dragonglass to arm its people, and she looks it over with a frown.

 

 

   “I do not like how they are left to last so often,” she murmurs,

 

 

   “They deserve no less than anywhere else. I believe they are passed over because the bulk of their garrison are women.”

 

 

   “I could not say, my lady,” Sam replies, sounding nervous again,

 

 

   “But I have to bring it to the King's attention.”

 

 

   “I will support you, Sam. My father is burdened at present with many concerns, but he trusts my judgment, and yours. If you have any suggestions for how we can fortify our defences most efficiently, please don't hesitate to tell us, or think that your voice won't be counted,” Shireen entreats,

 

 

   “I promise you that it will be. We rely on your knowledge of all this - you know that in the absence of Ser Seaworth my father has looked to you most often for your understanding of the castles and their requirements. We will continue to look to you.”

 

 

   “It's an honour, my lady,” Sam hastens to assure her, but then his insecurity shows itself in how he fidgets when he adds,

 

 

   “But I feel the weight of it, and I am not always sure I am the right man for the task.”

 

 

   “No righter man than the best man, and that is you, Ser Tarly, you must not doubt it,” she says as staunchly as she can, emphasising his title, and he glances at her and smiles quickly, then returns his attention to the papers, frowning hard, until he finally asks slowly,

 

 

   “Do you suppose... when I present this, would it be alright if you were there?”

 

 

   “I will ask to be present,” Shireen says calmly,

 

 

   “I do not think my father will refuse me. He has told me frequently of late that if anything were to happen to him in the course of this war, he has made provisions for me to take his place at once so the realm will not be leaderless. I believe he will welcome my participation in the councils if I express an interest in them. My mother may not have given him a son to be King after him, but I will do what I can as Queen if it comes to that, and I will need to know about all of this.”

 

 

   “You will be a great queen, one day,” Sam tells her solemly, and then with a shaky smile echoes her own words,

 

 

   “You must not doubt it!”

 

 

   She laughs again at his faith in her abilities and again for this small joke between them, a sign that his nerves are dissipating however slowly, and jostles his elbow with her own where it rests on the table, grinning at him.

 

 

   “Then let us go to my father, ser,” she declares,

 

 

   “And between us we'll have the war won before Gilly puts the children to bed!”

 

 

   All the uncertainty of earlier is forgotten as Sam laughs aloud and she helps him gather together all that he has written and must be brought before the King and the council. These are things that Shireen can do, her duty, and what is right, and it is enough.

 

 

   -


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

   When she and Sam leave the relative quiet of the library it is clear by the flurry of activity outside that arrangements are still being made to place the newcomers, though Shireen sees barely a trace of all the many Skagosi who arrived with Davos, only a few visible in the yard still where they appear to be hauling in and piling the obsidian they brought with them to be taken stock of, and she remarks upon it to Sam, having hoped she could show him just how successful Davos has truly been.

 

 

   “Oh, they won't want to stay here at the castle, my lady,” Sam says in that sage but respectful tone he always takes when enlightening she or her father or anyone else he deems superior to himself,

 

 

   “They're much like the wildlings - they prefer their own places, or the outdoors. I'll wager they'll camp a fair bit away from the outer walls, keep to themselves 'til they're needed.”

 

 

   “Well, my father did say that all were welcome to camp where they please,” Shireen says with a slight frown, glancing at Sam as he walks beside her, the path before them clearing of men hastily once they see her face, and she nods to them at intervals graciously for giving her and her companion room to pass regardless of whether they are doing so out of respect for her position or fear of her scars,

 

 

   “I only hope that they do not choose to keep away because they do not feel we appreciate their coming.”

 

 

   “I fear there will be many who do not appreciate, it, my lady,” Sam replies dolefully, and Shireen nods, frown deepening.

 

 

   “As do I,” she shares,

 

 

   “I heard some of our people, when Davos arrived - the things they said, Sam. These people have come to our aid before they were even in danger from that which threatens us, and asked no reward. I cannot like this perpetuation of prejudice in the face of such a selfless act.”

 

 

   “I'm afraid it will take a long time to change the minds of people who've never known anything but the tales, my lady,” Sam sighs, and she sees that as she does, he recognises how fragile these alliances can be, how easily this new advantage could vanish like the morning mist before a hot sun if they cannot persuade those who will be fighting that they must resolve their differences with each other or at least learn to ignore any fear or resentment they may feel, for surely if the southern soldiers make it too clear that they will not fight side by side with 'savages', those same called will leave, and they cannot afford to lose fighters.

 

 

   “They must be educated,” Shireen states briskly,

 

 

   “Or taught to mind their tongues. We need all the help we can get - if they can learn to tolerate the wildlings well enough to fight by their sides and keep from each others' throats the while, they can learn to tolerate the Skagosi. My father will not accept anything less.”

 

 

   “The King's a hard man,” Sam murmurs, almost too quiet for her to catch as they make their way through the bustling castle,

 

 

   “But he's driven by duty and he does what's right. The same can't be said for everyone who serves under him.”

 

 

   “That is not a reason to lower standards and permit pettiness and ignorance to prevail over reason and necessity,” Shireen points out, and then quirks a smile at him so he won't think she means to chasten him, and adds,

 

 

   “But there are good men, Ser Tarly. Some worth their weight in gold.”

 

 

   “I'd settle for obsidian, if we're to be weighed and paid before the war,” Sam remarks, a little dryly, and Shireen laughs, as he goes on with raised eyebrows,

 

 

   “Gods know we need it!”

 

 

   “You can take inventory as soon as we've spoken to my father,” Shireen agrees,

 

 

   “You'll need to alter your calculations accordingly once you see how much was brought.”

 

 

   They find their way directly to the Shieldhall, where she knows her father took Davos and the newly come commanders to speak with the council regarding the need to redistribute some of their numbers to the other keeps as soon as possible, and Shireen sees her father deep in conference at the far end of the hall with some of those whom she recognises, but she does not see Davos with them, nor the Lord Commander, and she notices that Sam drifts slightly from her side, casting long looks at the quantities of obsidian still being collected and inspected, and reaches out to place a hand on his arm.

 

 

   “Later, Sam - first we must - ” she begins, and then there is a commotion and the sound of men's voice raised in irritation, and smaller, higher voices whooping, and she and Sam are both beset at the knees from behind, Shireen nearly staggering under the onslaught but catching herself by grasping Sam's arm more firmly, as his children call for their joint attention, and Shireen can't help but laugh as she turns towards them, Aemon's strong little arms wound about her legs over her thick skirts and making it difficult, while Sam bends to catch Alester about the middle and interrupt his fit of mischief.

 

 

   “Boys, enough,” Sam remonstrates with them, but they are laughing fit to burst, and look as though they've likely escaped their mother and come looking for a bit of fun before bath and bed, for Shireen knows their routines and how they pass their days as well as she knows how she passes her own, and though they are yet small, only five, they are growing so fast and she has grown to love them so well, she can't find it in her heart to scold them for seeking her out, or for seeking out their father, even though she sees in the corner of her eye the disgruntled, even disapproving looks they draw.

 

 

   “Have you escaped again, my little monsters?” she accuses them, unable to help the smile on her lips, bending to be more of a height with them, and Sam sets Alester upon his little feet again and both boys crowd her, both laughing loudly and hugging her legs tightly from either side so that she can barely keep her feet, having to allow Sam to hold her hand with one of his own and steady her with the other judiciously at her back, and he insists,

 

 

   “Boys! Don't topple her, she'll be hurt!” and they relent somewhat and unwind their arms but take fistfuls of her skirt instead, turning their faces up to her with wide eyes and begging to be allowed the first kiss.

 

 

   Behind her, Shireen hears the voice of the Lord Commander, always low, and solemn, and she cannot quite make out the words, but then she hears an unfamiliar voice clear enough to discern, asking,

 

 

   “She has children?”

 

 

   It makes her smile freeze for the barest moment before she realises that there is no judgment in it, only surprise, but the surprise stings just slightly all the same, for she is used to being judged harshly, both as a woman unmarried at the age of twenty, and as an unfit candidate for marriage, since though she is the King's daughter, no one believes she will ever be able to bear children given the greyscale and her mother's failures in that respect.

 

 

   It is her greater curse, she supposes at times, that no one will have her for herself when it is expected of her in her position that she be able to further her line, and that yet she is looked down upon for being unwed even though it is obvious why that is so.

 

 

   She hears the Lord Commander's voice rise as if he is the one surprised, though, perhaps even a little shocked, as he refutes,

 

 

   “No! That is the King's daughter - the princess Shireen!” and Shireen wonders at who must be told this before she understands that it is possible they have not seen her face at all yet, or not well enough to see the extent of her scars and ascertain her identity, but they speak again, asking,

 

 

   “Then that is not her husband? Those are not her boys? They call him father, and her mother,” and she takes care not to react, not to show that she can hear this through the din of busy men and boots on stone, and the voices of children who do sometimes call her mother but only for laughter's sake.

 

 

   “No,” she hears the Lord Commander insist, sounding partly perplexed at being asked such things and partly bemused - no doubt at the thought of Sam being Shireen's husband - and Shireen smoothes her hands over Aemon and Alester's little foreheads gently, letting them babble at her, telling her of something they have done today, feeling only a little guilty that she listens more for what Jon Snow goes on to say in tones of grave respect,

 

 

   “That is Ser Samwell Tarly - one boy is child of his wife's first marriage; she is a wildling, handmaiden to the princess now. The other is son of a chief of the free folk and his wife, both dead while the boy was an infant. The boys are both Tarly's now, and his wife's, but they are also wards of the princess, for their protection. That is why they call her mother - it is in jest. She does not discourage it.”

 

 

   It warms Shireen's heart to hear the Lord Commander speak of it so, to hear his regard for how she has ordered things so obvious in his voice, for she knows that he thinks highly of how she pleaded with her father to allow Gilly and Sam to be wed and to keep both children when the King wanted Gilly's own child - now named Alester for Alester Florent who was family to both Shireen and Sam - and Gilly herself to be sent away to the care of Sam's family because he felt they were embarrassments, abominations that had no business existing, and wanted Aemon to be kept and used to try and keep the free folk in line.

 

 

   Shireen knows that Jon Snow approves of how she defied Stannis and asked that Sam be knighted for his deeds and his service, and be allowed to wed Gilly, so that they could keep both children and remain here all together as a family. In the end, Stannis agreed only when the Lord Commander supported Shireen's petition and suggested that Gilly be allowed to stay on as Shireen's handmaiden, a thing Shireen had never previously had, owing both to her greyscale leading none to want the job and to her following her father all over the realm as he campaigned and there being little need for Shireen to have one under those circumstances.

 

 

   Stannis relented after asking Sam and Gilly whether they would swear to Shireen herself, which they were more than happy to do, and deciding that the boys should henceforth be wards of Shireen and considered part of her extended household, feeling that she was of an age at fifteen to be creating her own connections and gathering people to her whom she feels able to trust.

 

 

   Shireen has never regretted it for a moment, nor has she forgotten Jon Snow's support, for although she knows he had long been a friend to Sam, giving him reason to want Sam's happiness which is certainly assured with Gilly at his side, and he had cause to feel for Gilly's plight as his own lady is a wildling and supported Gilly and her child, he could easily have refused to become involved at all when Shireen first went before her father with the matter. She is grateful to him still, for proving to her then that he is as just and good a man as her father is, and even in cases, a better one, for being so much more willing to see good in others though they be unlike himself.

 

 

   In any case, she has him partially to thank for the fact that for years now, Gilly and Sam's little family has also felt like Shireen's, the family she never had as a child alone at Dragonstone with neither siblings nor playmates, and the family she knows she will never now have, for though she doesn't doubt her father will seek an advantageous match for her once the wars are all truly over and the throne must be secured, the line of succession, she does not believe there will ever come a suitor who can both live up to her father's standards, and convince her that his motive is anything but seeking a quick way to power.

 

 

   “The princess is yet unmarried,” she hears the Lord Commander explain, an afterthought, no more, certainly no judgment of her in it, and she smiles more warmly for hearing it, and then the other asks as if utterly confused,

 

 

   “Why does that matter?”

 

 

   Shireen has no words for her shock, nor does it seem that Jon Snow has any for someone who does not understand why she could not have children if she has never been wed, but a third and harsher voice laughs aloud at the question, and then says with amused contempt, in words that drag over the Common Tongue as if unused to it,

 

 

   “Because the southron fools marry to own and keep their women trammelled like beasts to breed on, so they'll feel sure any brats are theirs - the word of a woman means nothing here, never mind it's she alone who knows who fathers her get. All the southrons trust is chains.”

 

 

   “Not all,” she hears Jon Snow insist immediately, hard and severe, and the harsh laugh rings again, and the gruffer voice counters,

 

 

   “You married your woman,” like it is an insult which proves the point, but the other who asked first of all this cuts across before the Lord Commander can argue the point, as Shireen expects he would like to, given that he is being all but accused of having wed Lady Commander Ygritte for anything but the deep and abiding devotion Shireen knows he feels towards her, and says quite clearly,

 

 

   “But she is princess. The choice is hers.”

 

 

   “The decision, if there ever is one, would lie with the King,” Shireen hears Jon Snow reply reluctantly, no doubt for how the harsher voice scoffs over,

 

 

   “She'll be sold off if he can get the right price for her, princess or no. They're beasts.”

 

 

   Shireen feels suddenly quite unwell, and though she hears Jon Snow's voice again, low and angry now, she tries very hard not to listen further, making it easier for herself by kneeling fully in front of the boys and letting them fall about her neck, embracing her in their endearingly guileless way and kissing her cheeks either side, and for just a brief moment she thinks to herself that if things had been very different, she might be in her own castle, indeed, with her own husband standing at her side, holding her own children in her arms, and she suffers the slight pang of mingled regret and guilt that it is clearly not to be her purpose after all and she will be a disappointment for it, because she knows there is truth to what was said.

 

 

   If her father can get the right match, she will be given gladly to secure the crown, and when he does not, for there will never be one, it may mean that all of this, all these years of work and war have been for nothing after all.

 

 

   “Say good night to the princess,” she hears Sam instruct the boys, and they whine for her to come and help put them to bed, to read to them as she has so often done since they were small, and she finds it brings her back from musing on a bitter but uncertain future, on strange things overheard, and she holds both the children close for a moment and then sits back on her heels to tell them,

 

 

   “You can read for yourselves - that is why I taught you! But I will read to you some other night, my dears, will that do? If you run along back to your mother and are very good for her. I need to speak to the King, and your father needs to help me.”

 

 

   Their eyes fairly glow with the wish to know more, but they hesitate, as they always do when she speaks of Stannis, for he has made it no secret that he tolerates Shireen's fondness for them only because he has seen how her treatment of Tarly's family has won her much admiration among the wildlings in particular, and because he can find no reason to doubt the loyalty of their little family to his daughter and thus can only be in favour of how Shireen keeps them all close.

 

 

   Stannis thinks always of the future, Shireen knows, and so she knows that in Alester and Aemon, he sees Shireen's future bannermen, her future champions, hoping that if he however begrudgingly allows her to favour this branch of the Tarlys, Shireen might be able to eventually secure the support of the entire house, and certainly rely upon the sons of Sam and Gilly and also whatever loyalties remain among the free folk to Aemon's true father - or certainly the weight of his background as born to free folk leaders - to protect Shireen if she encourages the bond.

 

 

   Shireen thinks of these things also, but her true motive for asking Gilly and the children to be given into her protection, and for Gilly to be allowed to wed Sam so that he might be their father by law and decree of the King, was always to protect the children and Gilly, and Sam's chance at happiness. She still recalls how when her father had agreed to it, he praised her for the politically shrewd decision to bind Aemon to their house through the loyalty of Sam, and how she had told him in truth that she knew it would, but that it was not her reason for doing it - that she had done it because it seemed right to her. She still recalls how her father had softened in that brief moment, and how his eyes had been proud when he told her that she was his daughter, and that in her he was glad to see that a just mind and a kind heart could rule as one, that this was her strength.

 

 

   She hopes it will be enough.

 

 

   “Is it very important?” Alester asks seriously, picking at his sleeves, and Aemon chimes in,

 

 

   “Is that why you need father?”

 

 

   “That is precisely why. I cannot do it without him. Your father is so very wise, which is why you should always listen to what he tells you,” Shireen replies solemnly, and they nod, because this is also what their mother tells them daily, how fortunate they are to have so learned a father, to have the opportunity to learn from him as they grow, and Shireen can only agree.

 

 

   “Well, your father's telling you to thank the princess for today, and go and find your mother,” Sam insists, and Shireen hears in his tone that edge of fatherly discipline she occasionally sees him exercise, but sparingly, only when needed. She knows from what Gilly has said that Sam fears more than anything to become like his own father was, though after having heard tales of him, Shireen knows Sam could not be more dissimilar. Truly, Sam is a man made for family life, meant to be a wonderful husband and father, and Shireen is pleased that she has helped it come to be.

 

 

   Dutifully, the boys each take one of Shireen's hands and bow over it and kiss it, and they intone together,

 

 

   “Thank you for today,” in the funny ritual Gilly introduced from the moment they were old enough, and which she has explained to Shireen as a marriage between a wildling custom where you thank those who you owe your continued existence to each day when you see them last in the event they are gone when you wake and you are left without their protection, and Gilly's own deep gratitude for Shireen's intervention on behalf of her and her children causing her to want the boys to grow always knowing that if it were not for Shireen, they would have neither a mother nor a father and certainly no brother as they know them.

 

 

   It used to move Shireen to tears, but now it is a thing she looks forward to each day, to the moment where she knows without fail that she can trust that the words of loyalty and appreciation for her own existence are unerringly truthful and deeply meant.

 

 

   “Thank you, my dears,” she tells them softly, bringing their little hands on hers to kiss them back and then letting them go and rising,

 

 

   “Kiss your mother for me, too. I shall see you tomorrow. Dream well.”

 

 

   They hug their father before they go, promising to be good for Gilly and kiss her as Shireen bade them, and then they are away, and Shireen smiles to herself, feeling fortified, and turns to seek her father with Sam.

 

 

   She had not expected him to be so close, but he stands before her with Davos at his side, his hands clasped behind him, posture rigid, and his face is worn but hard when he nods to her.

 

 

   “I saw you enter,” he informs her, and she hears the disapproval and understands that it is for the spectacle of the children's familiarity with her, for while he does not intervene and he sees that it has worth, he does not like it exactly. Shireen thinks it causes him just a little of the pangs of future disappointment in the present, where it is unwelcome, to see his only daughter and heir with boy-children who call her mother.

 

 

   “We came to speak to you,” she replies, though he must be aware of that, and he nods for her to go on, so she continues,

 

 

   “Ser Tarly has completed his assessment of inventory over all the keeps along the Wall, and what is needed where. Once he has inspected the dragonglass Davos retrieved and been given a proper account of our new numbers and adjusted his calculations thereafter, he will be ready to present it to the council. I should like to be present when he does.”

 

 

   Her father registers no surprise, but he does switch his attention to Sam, who straightens noticeably by her side although he was already standing correctly to attention as he always does when before the King.

 

 

   “How soon can it be done, Ser Tarly? We can't afford to lose any more time before agreeing on distributions,” Stannis demands, and Shireen can feel Sam falter a little, for he will likely never be used to how harsh her father can seem, though he means no ill and is only ruthlessly devoted to his duty and seeing it done.

 

 

   “Er - if Ser Seaworth will tell me how many were brought as I inspect the dragonglass, I can be ready to present everything to the council by tomorrow morn,” Sam promises, and Stannis narrows his eyes, glancing to Davos briefly, and then barks,

 

 

   “No sooner?”

 

 

   “Give Ser Tarly until tomorrow, then call the council,” Shireen suggests, and her father looks at her for a long moment. She holds his gaze though, knowing as well as he does that for all they rely on Sam in these matters, they need to be able to trust that his assessments are accurate in order to base decisions upon them, and they cannot if Sam hasn't had sufficient time to assess everything. He does not work slowly, Stannis knows this. If Sam says he needs until tomorrow morning, that is what he needs.

 

 

   “Very well, Ser Tarly. I trust you,” Stannis says at last, nodding curtly, and then looking to Davos and instructing,

 

 

   “Assist him with whatever's needed, then come and find me,” and Davos and Sam bow and leave with each a murmured 'your Grace' to her father and herself, and then her father offers her his arm quite unexpectedly, and as she takes it by sheer rote, tells her in an undertone,

 

 

   “There are things I must say to you before this council.”

 

 

   She does not reply, for it is clear he means this to be between them alone, and so they do not speak at all until they are within his chambers in the King's Tower, and he gestures for her to sit across from him at his great table and takes a seat also, folding his hands together before him and looking grave.

 

 

   “Shireen, there are things you must know,” he begins, and suddenly she sees the weariness in him, the toll these many years of hardship, of fighting, have taken on him, and she realises that her father, though he has never seemed a young man to her, is beginning to show some of the strain of all he has lived through.

 

 

   “About the war?” she asks, and her father's mouth twists with displeasure and bitterness.

 

 

   “It seems to me of late that all I've ever given you to know was of war,” he murmurs, averting his eyes from hers for a moment and shaking his head, and she reaches out to lay her hand upon his, and tells him gravely,

 

 

   “I know that was never your intent, or your desire. I know you have done all the best you could for me, always. I could not have wanted for a better father,” and then he looks at her again and his gaze has gentled as much as it ever does, as she has noted these past few years it only ever does now, with her, and he sighs before speaking again.

 

 

   “Yes, you could have,” he says with harsh self-reproach, clasping her hand briefly, a little too tight with emotion, and then passing it towards her to be retracted, and she folds her hands together as he has done and lays them on the table, knowing that he does not like prolonged contact, particularly when there are serious matters to discuss, even though it is her instinct to want to give him comfort and tangible evidence of her support in such situations,

 

 

   “I could have done more, Shireen. I should have guarded you better. I should have realised sooner that your mother's grief was turning to madness. I should have slain that damnable woman the first time she mentioned king's blood to me!”

 

 

   Shireen can't help but flinch a little, at that, and turn her eyes to the table and her own fingers. She recalls well why her father executed her mother's favourite, the red woman of Asshai. She recalls well what followed.

 

 

   Her father sighs again, and passes a hand over his eyes briefly, and then he focuses on her again, but speaks less harshly this time.

 

 

   “I know your mother had hoped to the last that we would have a male heir, but I know now that no son I might have had could ever be all that you have grown into,” he says, solemn, but deep with pride and iron-clad love, and she wants to take his hands again for how much it means to her when he tells her so rarely, for he is simply not a man given to such speeches, but she knows he will not appreciate it if she does, and he continues,

 

 

   “I also know that I shall never marry again. I shall never have another child. There is every possibility, Shireen, that this war will claim me. If it is my last, you know I have left provisions that all my command be given to you, that you become Queen in the very moment I leave this life. I trust the crown to you, my daughter, but even if we win this winter war, others may try to steal it from you. That is what I wanted to speak to you on.”

 

 

   “I know that if you fall and I am to become Queen, I am to fight on,” Shireen acknowledges dutifully, though the thought threatens to overwhelm her,

 

 

   “I know that we have pledged to purify the North. I know we cannot abandon this war, once begun. We are bound.”

 

 

   “Yes, we are bound,” her father says gravely, that light of pride still in his eyes as she keeps her head high and her voice clear,

 

 

   “Though I hope to whatever divinity there may be left who has not cursed us already that you can forgive me for binding you, also.”

 

 

   “You are my King and my father,” Shireen insists, feeling some of her own pride shine through the fear,

 

 

   “Your house is mine, your cause is mine. I will honour both. I will honour your will, and whatever alliances you have made.”

 

 

   “I know you will,” he tells her, more softly than she is used to hearing from him,

 

 

   “You are my blood to the core. But it is of alliances I must speak to you. You are the last living Baratheon lady. You will have the crown after me. It can go to no other, but you know what stirs in the South - you know what you may have to fight, if we win here, to keep the throne.”

 

 

   “I know,” she says simply, for even after all this time, she still dreams of dragons at times, and wakes with a scream.

 

 

   “To win here is one thing, nothing is certain, but I am glad that you have asked to sit the councils. You will do so at my side. I know that you already understand all that is prepared, all that must be done, all that we have done to ready ourselves and fortify the defences along the Wall, and I know that Tarly will not abandon you if I should die, for what you've done for his family he will remain with you until the end. I also know that you can trust Jon Snow, and his lady,” Stannis details, and she is glad to see that he is finally able to speak of Lady Commander Ygritte without the slightest twitch, for she has proven herself many times over,

 

 

   “All these link you to the free folk, the wildlings, and the Starks. The free folk and wildlings will not swear to you, it is not their way, but all those whom they trust to lead them are loyal to me at present, and there is no reason that fealty should not pass to you on my death. Any who require convincing still are like to support you if we win this war, on the strength of that, and what we have done for the North. The Starks will bring the rest. You understand that if we lose here, none of this will matter.”

 

 

   “I do, and I trust the Starks, and those whom they trust,” Shireen tells him,

 

 

   “I know they have suffered, but they are still an honourable house, they still command the loyalties of the North now that the traitors are in tatters, and I trust that they would support us as we have pledged to support them here, if we win and there comes a need to fight in the South again, but we did promise them they could secede peacefully once we are done here and the North is free of this plague.”

 

 

   “We did,” Stannis nods sharply,

 

 

   “And they can, but as you say - we support them here, when they need it most. I believe we can trust that once all this is over, they will return that favour should we have need of it.”

 

 

   “Then what alliances are left to discuss?” she asks, and her father pulls a document from his pocket and places it on the table for her to take.

 

 

   “You did well, I see now more than ever, to endear yourself to the free folk, the wildlings, by taking those boys both and lending your protection to them,” he tells her as she takes the paper and unfolds it properly, beginning to read, and so engrossed is she immediately that her gratification at her father conceding once more that her decision was the right one is a little delayed, but once it does hit her, she smiles up at him briefly, leading him to admit further,

 

 

   “I should have trusted your instinct from the start. I should not have allowed my prejudice to cloud my judgment. In that you saw more clearly than I did, both as a statesman and as an individual who recognises right when it is put before you. You did well, Shireen. But it may not be enough. Hence...”

 

 

   “Hence this?” she surmises, looking up again from the letter she has now read, and she can't help but smile at her father, and exclaim,

 

 

   “But this is wonderful!”

 

 

   “You will see that he has declared for you without reservation,” Stannis points out, then scoffs slightly and confesses,

 

 

   “I didn't think the lad had it in him, but you can see what he writes, even if he does it as if he were a knight in a tale. In any case, it is more than I could have hoped for.”

 

 

   “Dear, dear, Sweetrobin,” Shireen murmurs softly, fingers smoothing the paper and pure affection in her tone and heart, before she looks to her father again whose eyes now carry an amused light, and she adds,

 

 

   “He does mean it, father. He will do this, if we have a need. If we send word. He'll have written to Sansa Stark as well, I don't doubt it.”

 

 

   “Nor do I,” her father replies honestly, then allows himself a brief smile, raising his eyebrows and giving voice to his surprise that,

 

 

   “For all the lad may yet be infirm in body, he is not so in purpose, and I have never doubted that for all his flaws, his regard for lady Stark and you is true and deep,” and then something of the father comes into his face and voice, and he adds,

 

 

   “You taught him well, Shireen. This is your reward.”

 

 

   “I did not do it for reward. I did it for no one else had thought to, and it was not right,” she says firmly, and Stannis nods, holding her gaze with serious eyes.

 

 

   “It is clear that he knows as much,” he remarks,

 

 

   “His gratitude seems as real as his high opinion of you.”

 

 

   “Perhaps not quite so high as his opinion of lady Stark, once he forgave her for the necessary deception,” Shireen opines with a shake of her head to recall how Robert had to be cajoled into forgiving Sansa Stark and then once he had, immediately reverted to unabashed adoration of her, and Stannis shrugs.

 

 

   “Without it, she'd be long dead. He's not such a fool he couldn't listen to reason when you put it before him. But this is what I spoke of, Shireen. Alliances. I know I have never been the sort who forges them easily, a hard thing for a King to fail in, but for all that has been put in your way, you seem to have the knack, or be able to find one more often than not,” he says very seriously, and Shireen lifts an eyebrow and a shoulder and insists,

 

 

   “He is doing this as much for Sansa Stark as he is for me - likely more so. If she and I were not on the same side, I doubt it would be my cause he would choose to declare for.”

 

 

   “Perhaps we did not read the same letter,” Stannis replies a touch dryly,

 

 

   “Or did I not read that for the lady who taught him all he knows of lordship and how to manage himself, he will command the sky at her will if she has a need?”

 

 

   Shireen can't help the somewhat undignified laugh that escapes her to hear Robert's florid words spoken in her father's severe, dry voice, but she composes herself swiftly and counters,

 

 

   “We both read it, father, but I would wager the crown on his letter to Sansa Stark fairly dripping with worship. He always adored her in his way, but after she asked you to aid his cause he has sung her praises at every opportunity. I do not blame him.”

 

 

   “Nor I, when the aid I sent went in the form of my only daughter to save him from himself  and the traitors surrounding him, and to finally educate him as he should be,” Stannis says rather tersely, and Shireen frowns.

 

 

   “It was not his fault, father,” she reminds him, and her father scowls, for this is an old disagreement between them.

 

 

   “When we fought to pry Sansa Stark from Baelish's clammy grasp and restore her to her rightful seat, she asked our aid in saving Arryn, and I recognised the need to do so, but I still do not agree that it was right to send you from my side to be the one to do it,” he insists, and Shireen smiles at him, hoping to soothe the irritation that always flares in him when they speak of this.

 

 

   “But look what it has brought us, how you are rewarded now,” she says, as winningly as she knows how,

 

 

   “It was the right decision, father. I was safer in the Eyrie than I would have been in the North at that time, you were right to send me to help Robert, it gave you time to purge the red from our number, after - after mother,” she falters slightly, but presses on,

 

 

   “And you had no need to fear for my safety during the worst of the fighting for Winterfell.”

 

 

   “I always fear for you when you are not with me,” her father reveals, his expression curious to her, something there which she does not recognise, almost as though he is confused by what she has said,

 

 

   “It is why I never sent you away before then, why I did not want you to go - I never would have allowed it if it didn't seem the only way to intervene for the Arryn boy as lady Sansa requested. I have never had a moment's peace when you were not with me where I could know and see you safe, Shireen. I would rather you were by my side in the middle of a battle than in some faraway tower, however supposedly secure, however surrounded by those supposedly loyal to us.”

 

 

   He looks away for a moment and then rather more quietly adds,

 

 

   “It is my failing as a father, that I have never conquered the fear of being separated from my only child.”

 

 

   “I do not believe that,” Shireen rejects,

 

 

   “I believe that is what makes you so superior a father to so many I have heard tell of. I remember well how hard you were set against letting me go to the Eyrie. Is that not a mark of a father's true devotion to their duty as such, the desire to see their child safe above all else?”

 

 

   “Shireen, I sit before you and admit that I would rather stow you in one of my own saddlebags in the middle of a battlefield than send you away to safety,” her father points out with dull eyes and raised brows, his voice flat, and she shakes her head.

 

 

   “To uncertain safety,” she emphasises,

 

 

   “You sit before me, father, and admit that you would rather see me safe with your own eyes to know the truth of it, than trust in anything or anyone else to keep me so. I can think of no more noble fatherly instinct, so if you are ashamed of your inability to put that aside, I believe we must disagree that there is a need to feel so.”

 

 

   “You are too gifted a speaker by far,” Stannis grumbles,

 

 

   “It is as well that you will be siding with me at the council.”

 

 

   Shireen only smiles brightly at him, and then taps the letter before her with a finger and pushes her advantage.

 

 

   “And think - if you had refused Sansa Stark when she asked you to fulfil a promise she made to Robert Arryn to help cast the vipers from his nest once she was free, if you had never sent me for the purpose, Robert would not now be in our debt, he would not now love me well enough to offer his support in this way,” she says seriously, and Stannis frowns hard.

 

 

   “He would not even know how, had he not had the benefit of your tutelage,” he snorts,

 

 

   “I'll admit it irritates me to know that for all you did for him - for all I sent him my only child in his time of need - you insist he loves the lady Stark better than you.”

 

 

   “It is what it is,” Shireen says simply,

 

 

   “If I have a knack, as you put it, for creating alliances, my weapon there is hard work. Effort. As you've taught me. I cannot enter a room and beguile by my mere existence, as some can - as Sansa Stark can. As she beguiled Robert Arryn. She is a fine lady, father, and I respect her greatly, but if I have a knack for creating alliances, it is not as effortless as hers, nor as potent. It is what it is. I do not resent it.”

 

 

   “She is a fine lady,” Stannis agrees, his eyes suddenly piercing,

 

 

   “But she is not my daughter. You are. She did not teach the Arryn boy everything he knows of how to govern his lands and people and comport himself with dignity. You did. She did not realise that he was being poisoned by agents of Baelish. That was also you, just as it was you who uncovered the plot to murder him by degrees and steal everything he now owns and appears able to manage because you took the time to teach him. It was not by the grace of any gods, it was you. My daughter. I cannot and will not understand how any man could not prefer you on the strength of the facts alone.”

 

 

   “Sansa Stark is a very beautiful, very charming, very pleasant woman,” Shireen says slowly,

 

 

   “Who has been through much. She may not be your daughter, but she is worthy, father, of anyone's regard, and I know you see that.”

 

 

   “Yes, yes, of course,” Stannis waves away irritably,

 

 

   “It's only - ” he cuts himself off to grind his teeth for a moment, and then begins anew,

 

 

   “It is frustrating, for any father, to see his child passed over, when he thinks her as worthy or worthier still than any other who is so easily favoured by one or all. Fate has not been kind to you, Shireen, and I will admit when you were younger I feared it would eventually embitter you, as it did your mother, but you have risen above everything so magnificently, and I am so very proud of you, that...”

 

 

   He cuts himself off again, but does not grind his teeth this time. Instead, he only says, very softly, looking away to the window,

 

 

   “It is hard, for a father who loves his daughter, that he cannot give her the earth, as she deserves, or turn the hearts of everyone to her in full, as he feels they should be turned.”

 

 

   “It is not your fault,” Shireen manages, barely a whisper, her hands tightly clasped so she will not reach out to him, holding back tears hard,

 

 

   “You have given me everything you could. I will always be grateful.”

 

 

   “And I will never deserve it as fully as I ought have been able to,” her father replies with desolate certainty, his face stonier than they say hers is, and all she can do is shake her head.

 

 

   A moment of silence passes between them, and then she swallows the urge to weep, and instead forces business into her tone as she says,

 

 

   “So this, this is good news. Robert Arryn will support us if we need it. He will not withdraw his support as long as I am not in conflict with the Starks, I am certain, and I see no reason why I would become so. I have a reasonable certainty that if we win here, our people are loyal enough that even if they are weary of war by then, they will fight for me if there is a challenge from the South, and - father, why are you looking at me like that? Why are you smiling?”

 

 

   The last she asks almost in fright, for the benevolent, indulgent beam that passes over her father's face as she speaks is utterly alien on his features and not something she has ever seen him wear before, but he nods to her as if to pay her respect and says quite softly, his face growing almost peaceful,

 

 

   “You are speaking as though you were already wearing the crown.”

 

 

   “I - ” she begins, and then realises with horror that he is correct, but when her eyes fill with tears he waves them away, hushing her and shaking his head, and reaching for both her hands, holding them over the table and then bringing them to his lips the once, setting them down again while she fights to control her emotions and suppress the silent weeping that came upon her so suddenly and unwanted.

 

 

   “It is rare, for any father in times such as these, to be able to see their child wear the crown they will inherit, and wear it well,” he says, gentle but grave,

 

 

   “But for a moment there, I looked at you, and I saw the queen you will be when I am gone, and it was a gift. If you rule for no longer than a day, I know it will be a day such as they will speak of for a thousand years for how you will rule, Shireen.”

 

 

   She shakes with a sob she holds back only in the last instance and she cannot help that her eyes overflow, but her father only smiles as she cannot remember him ever doing, and she wonders whether he looked at her this way when she was an infant, pure and new, before her face was ruined, before her mother went mad, before this wretched war destroyed so much.

 

 

   “Don't cry, Shireen,” he asks of her, and she breathes as deeply as she can to overcome it, but she can't, and then before she has realised what he is doing, her father has risen and is at her side, and her arms go about him where he kneels by her chair, and she cries as she cannot recall doing since her mother died.

 

 

   “You are my daughter,” she hears him say quietly, something tender in it, as he holds her safely and lets her feel without restraint,

 

 

   “You are my daughter.”

 

 

   When at last the crying subsides, she draws back in shame, for she knows how he hates this sort of spectacle, but he only dries her face carefully with a kerchief and then rises to kiss her forehead and take her hand, pressing it.

 

 

   “Whatever happens,” he tells her, his voice quiet but rasping as if perhaps he shed a tear as well under cover of hers,

 

 

   “You are my daughter, Shireen. And I am proud of you.”

 

 

   The words do not prompt a fresh fit of crying, instead she feels her heart lighten and her throat clear of grief, and she finds she can look at him and say without a shadow of doubt to mar it,

 

 

   “I know.”

 

 

   “Can you forgive me for placing this burden on you?” he asks her with sorrow evident on his face and in his words, and she smiles up at him earnestly.

 

 

   “It was your duty,” she tells him, and though her voice is thin, her heart and eyes are steady,

 

 

   “It will be mine. There is nothing to forgive.”

 

 

   For the second time only in her recollection, her father embraces her first, willingly and freely, and she thinks in that moment that any duty, any burden, is worth the love, the pride of her father. The knowledge that to him, she is enough in herself.

 

 

   -


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

   “Your Grace has been crying,” is the very first thing Gilly says to Shireen when she enters her own rooms, having come directly from the audience with her father, and Shireen would be surprised, for she hasn't said a word nor has she faced Gilly head-on yet, but after five years and how utterly indispensable Gilly has proven herself, Shireen would have been more surprised if Gilly did not somehow know that Shireen has been crying after only a moment in her presence.

 

 

   “I was speaking with my father,” Shireen tells her, as Gilly gets her settled in at her table, places a cup of hot honeyed tea by her hand, and begins to lay out Shireen's writing things in front of her.

 

 

   “Sam let on you might when I saw him before Ser Seaworth came,” Gilly replies, efficient hands tossing a bunch of herbs into a small pot boiling over the fire, a soothing scent beginning to emanate from it, and then stirring briefly with a set of metal tongs and taking a bowl from a nearby table before withdrawing a steaming cloth from the pot with the tongs and placing it in the bowl, bringing it to Shireen as she says,

 

 

   “Press this to your face and breathe deep, my lady.”

 

 

   “Oh, Gilly, you needn't,” Shireen tries, weak with the knowledge of how little use it is to protest, and indeed, all it accomplishes is that Gilly sets the bowl down, takes the cloth up herself, folding it and tucking the edges in so that their relative roughness won't irritate Shireen's skin, and says in her firmest mothering tones,

 

 

   “Close your eyes, your Grace,” which Shireen does just in time for Gilly to apply the cloth to her face for her.

 

 

   She can't help but breathe deeply and obediently of whatever it is that Gilly has soaked it in, the soft, fine material still steaming but not too hot since it is always so chilly here that even with a fire lit nothing stays hot long once removed from the source of heat, and the scent and sensation of the mixture it has been saturated with relaxes Shireen's mind and calms her aching eyes and her scarred and salted face.

 

 

   After a moment or two, Gilly removes it, then gently wipes both of Shireen's hands with the rapidly cooling cloth, and returns it to steep and boil, murmuring,

 

 

   “That's better now, you lettin' me do my job so's you can do yours - I know you'll be at that council tomorrow first thing, you'll want to be fresh for that.”

 

 

   “Do I look a fright?” Shireen asks, still far more relaxed now from Gilly's fairly brief ministrations than she was when she walked through the door, but now a little concerned that she might indeed have been wandering the corridors from her father's rooms looking obviously tear-stained and disarrayed, because even if no one saw her, they might well have, and she can't be seen leaving a private audience with the King visibly distressed.

 

 

   “No, my lady,” Gilly insists, taking a little vial from her table by the fire and coming back to Shireen,

 

 

  “I'm sure no one but me would even know you were anything but tired,” she adds, pouring some of the vial's contents into her hand and then setting it aside, distributing the stuff between her palms and continuing,

 

 

   “Close your eyes and tilt your head up, my lady,” and Shireen does so without complaint, feeling Gilly's hands upon her face gently but purposefully massaging a pleasantly sweet-smelling oil into her skin, not sparing the scaling on her cheek and neck, and then Gilly says,

 

 

   “And you've a right to be, wearing yourself to a shadow working - you can open your eyes - ” and Shireen complies, to see Gilly give her hands the same treatment, remarking as she does,

 

 

   “And no one could ever think to speak ill of you for that - there you are.”

 

 

   Gilly beams at her handiwork, and Shireen smiles at her tentatively, as Gilly opines with satisfaction,

 

 

   “Now even I would never know!”

 

 

  “Gilly, you really don't have to, you know - I doubt anyone would look so closely, I just don't like to think I could have been seen leaving my father as if he'd given me terrible news,” Shireen tells her with both concern and faint apology in her tone layered over the gratitude,

 

 

   “There are already enough among the men who are afraid of what awaits them - I don't want to give them any reason to fear we may have less favourable circumstances than the King has told them we do!”

 

 

   “Oh, I know all that, my lady,” Gilly says with candid practicality, taking away the vial and then returning to stand behind Shireen and begin to undo her braids with clever but tender fingers,

 

 

   “But it doesn't make any difference to how I do my job, and my job's taking care of the princess.”

 

 

   Shireen can feel her face glowing with affection as Gilly speaks, and she sips her tea and lets the warmth of it seep into her fingers and surround her heart before she replies.

 

 

   “And you already know I think you do too much for me,” she remarks, and all she gets in response is a huff from over her shoulder as Gilly takes down another braid.

 

 

   When Jon Snow originally proposed that Gilly become Shireen's handmaiden, Shireen had no actual intention of letting her be any such thing. She saw the merit in the proposal because she saw how the idea appealed to her father, but Shireen had never had a handmaiden and never really wanted for one, and she had not harboured any wish to demand that Gilly fulfil any such duties, but from the very beginning Gilly had insisted, stating that while she didn't know half as much about honour and duty as the Lord Commander or Shireen herself, she knew her place and she knew when she owed something to someone, and she was determined to do for Shireen what she had pledged before the King she would, and be the best handmaiden she possibly could to the princess.

 

 

   Shireen knows that Gilly even went so far as to ask the Lord Commander - for lack of a better to ask about such things - what precisely a handmaiden to a great lady was supposed to know and be able to do for her if asked, and that following that conversation, Gilly had also sought Sam's aid in instructing her on certain points, since Sam also came from a family where he had experience of fine ladies and their needs.

 

 

   Gilly has taught herself to sew to a standard she deems almost good enough to be fitting for Shireen's position, though Shireen has never at any point felt that it was anything but perfectly good and serviceable, which is really all Shireen requires, having never developed a taste for finery or much use for anything too complex or interesting given that she has had no reason to need clothing that was anything but merely sturdy and suited to hard use and the climate she has found herself in.

 

 

   Additionally, Gilly sees to every aspect of maintaining Shireen's possessions, requisitioning paper and ink for her personal use, fetching and replacing any books she may need for study in her own rooms from the library so that she doesn't have to waste time remembering to do it and carting about heavy tomes, mending her boots, cooking all the meals Shireen does not take communally or with her father and bringing them to Shireen wherever she may be once Gilly realised that Shireen often forgets to seek out sustenance when she is working on tasks, and otherwise making Shireen's life infinitely more bearable and easy.

 

 

   Gilly has also taken it upon herself to care for Shireen's personal toilet, even adding steps to it which Shireen never before thought of, including hand-crafting various soaps and tonics and oils for use on Shireen's skin and hair, taking over the management of caring for Shireen's hair entirely, and introducing regular maintenance of Shireen's nails into Shireen's grooming routine.

 

 

   Shireen has often protested that there's no need for Gilly to do any of this - that Shireen might be a princess in name but that she has no need to look the lady as she works alongside her father and follows him wherever he goes, that truly Shireen never intended Gilly to actually take on the role of lady's maid to Shireen so absolutely, and that really, Shireen would be content for Gilly to merely make herself useful as Sam's wife and a mother to the boys and to otherwise simply lend herself to the general running of things wherever they find themselves, but Gilly has a stubborn, noble streak wider and longer-reaching than the Wall, and she won't hear a word of it.

 

 

   “You gave me my boys and my husband and taught me to read and write so I can make my way in the world, and I owe you everything I have that makes life worth living, my lady, so there's nothing that's too much or too good for you,” is all she ever says when Shireen mentions it, and she says it now, quiet but matter-of-fact and without a shred of nonsense, and Shireen has no choice but to subside into her cup of tea and allow Gilly to comb out her hair for her and re-braid it for sleeping.

 

 

   “You haven't asked why I was crying,” she murmurs after Gilly has finished the new braid, and turns to watch her, and Gilly just shrugs and says,

 

 

   “If you want me to know, you'll tell me. I trust you to know if there's a need.”

 

 

   “We discussed a great many things,” Shireen replies, keeping her voice even despite the surge of fierce gratitude she feels at having Gilly's complete faith in her ability to do what is right and necessary,

 

 

   “My father and I. Mainly the future, and what's to be done, both in the event of a victory here, and if we should fail.”

 

 

   “We won't,” Gilly says with stubborn surety, going to fold up what appears to be one of Shireen's cloaks to put away, and Shireen smiles to hear it, but knows she needs Gilly to entertain the possibility for a moment if she's to do her duty by the Tarlys.

 

 

  “I hope we don't, but if we do, Gilly, I need you to know that I am going to make arrangements to keep you and the boys safe,” she informs her, and Gilly shoots her a look over her shoulder where she is putting the folded cloak in Shireen's chest across the room.

 

 

   “We won't leave you,” Gilly insists,

 

 

   “I swore I wouldn't and so did Sam, and that's an end to it. We'll go nowhere without you.”

 

 

   “If things do not go well here, you will go South with the boys,” Shireen says firmly as Gilly straightens and crosses her arms,

 

 

   “Father received a letter from Lord Arryn today, declaring for our cause and swearing to us. I intend to write to him now and arrange matters so that if the situation here grows bleak, you will go to the Eyrie with the boys and be placed in his household, and I will ask that he allow the boys to be taught as they have been here and eventually be made his squires. He will not refuse me.”

 

 

   “Well of course he won't, he owes you everything, same as I, which is why I'm not leaving you,” Gilly argues hotly, and Shireen sighs, and puts her cup aside, briefly pressing the heels of her hands over her eyes and then looking at Gilly once more, noting the over-brightness of her eyes and the pink in her cheeks that evidence her upset, and she sighs again.

 

 

   “Gilly... You know I don't like to give you orders, but please understand, my decision on this is final,” she tries, desperately weary and heartsick at the thought of being without Gilly and the boys when they bring her so much joy and comfort, but remaining as calm as she can,

 

 

   “I don't like to think of it any more than you do. I love the boys. I love you. It would break my heart to send any of you away. But my duty is to my father, I cannot leave, and I also cannot consider placing you and the children in danger by allowing you to remain if there is a risk to you. This is no different from the arrangement I have already made with lady Stark to send you and the boys to Winterfell to be safe there in the event we must go to war with the South once all this is done. I am thinking of you and the children - I will not have them grow up motherless. Please tell me you understand.”

 

 

   “I understand,” Gilly mutters bitterly, then tosses her head and sniffs back tears as she spits passionately,

 

 

   “But I hate it! I hate to think of leaving you all alone, after everything you've done for us, it seems wrong - ”

 

 

   “It is not wrong, it is the only possible choice, and it is my duty to you. You are all in my care, you are part of my household, you are part of my _family_ , I cannot allow any harm to come to you, and I will do whatever is necessary to prevent it,” Shireen declares, feeling suddenly as if she is sitting her father's seat, with the iron band of determined duty which keeps his back straight and his shoulders firm doing the same for her, keeping the tears from her eyes and voice, helping her to do this thing that is so difficult, and she sees Gilly's shoulders sag in defeat and despair for a moment, and then the curious way Gilly looks at her, with wonder and then saddened amusement, sniffing again.

 

 

   “You sounded just like the King, then. I saw him in your face,” she says a little sadly, a little hesitantly to keep the tears from blurring into the little laugh there, and Shireen sighs a third time and spreads her hands, reaching for Gilly to come to her and taking her hand when she does.

 

 

   “I have to do what's right even if it hurts, Gilly,” she tells her woefully, feeling exhausted,

 

 

   “I couldn't bear it if I kept you by me out of selfishness and anything happened to you. I couldn't. So please don't fight me in this. You know the last thing I want is to be parted from any of you, but I see no other way to protect you if worst comes to worst.”

 

 

   “I know, my lady,” Gilly replies softly, tremulous but also strong, something of the mother in her just as much as of the friend and subject when she briefly kisses Shireen's hand and then presses it with both her own,

 

 

   “I do know it. It's hard for you.”

 

 

   “It will be easier, knowing that you and the boys are safe,” Shireen tells her seriously, and Gilly nods, meeting her solemn gaze with her own, as Shireen adds with a slight, sad smile,

 

 

   “It's no wonder you see my father in me, now we're discussing this. He and I had a similar conversation earlier. About the difficulties of being parted from those you would do anything to see safe...”

 

 

   “He meant you,” Gilly sees, speaking with authority, and Shireen supposes it is well-placed, for Gilly is a wholly devoted mother and she more than anyone else Shireen knows would be able to understand the trials of the King where his only child is concerned.

 

 

   “He did,” Shireen confirms softly,

 

 

   “I know how hard it was for him to let me go to the Eyrie to help Lord Arryn - I know how he feared for me.”

 

 

   “But if you'd never gone, would Lord Arryn be on your side now?” Gilly asks practically, and Shireen smiles a little more and shakes her head.

 

 

   “No, it's not likely,” she considers,

 

 

   “At best, we might have hoped that we could prevail upon Sansa Stark to ask him to support us later, he'd never refuse _her_ anything, but it _would_ be for her, and trusting to the support of Lord Arryn when it is wholly conditional on lady Stark's support of us...”

 

 

   “I can't see the King being happy with that,” Gilly says wryly, and Shireen laughs quietly.

 

 

   “He wouldn't be. He'd never think the connection was strong enough to ever truly be relied upon,” she replies honestly, and Gilly nods thoughtfully and then seems to make up her mind, saying,

 

 

   “So then it's a good thing you've given Lord Arryn every reason to feel connected to you, my lady - that's a proper bond.”

 

 

   “It is,” Shireen agrees, then retrieves Sweetrobin's letter from her pocket and holds it out to Gilly, asking,

 

 

   “Would you like to read what he wrote to us?”

 

 

   “Oh, I couldn't, that's personal - ” Gilly begins, raising her eyebrows, and Shireen shakes her head and proffers the letter again, insisting,

 

 

   “It's meant for the King and I, and you are part of my family, and it's as well for you to see for yourself what Lord Arryn writes, so that you can feel secure that the person whose protection I intend to send you and the boys into should it come to that is honourable, and that his loyalty to me and my family is true. There is nothing in this letter that I wouldn't gladly have you and Sam know.”

 

 

   “If you say so, your Grace,” Gilly murmurs dubiously, taking the letter gingerly and giving Shireen a very wary look, and Shireen nods encouragingly and then turns her attention back to her tea, giving Gilly time to read.

 

 

   Gilly reads well, now, for Shireen has often ensured that she practice, insisting that someone whom she relies on to run her household for her should be able to manage things without having to ask her husband or Shireen herself what papers related to that business are trying to convey, and so Shireen is not surprised when Gilly expels a short giggle after only a moment or so, which she swiftly quells, no doubt not wanting to give an impression of lacking respect.

 

 

   “You mustn't mind Lord Arryn's tone,” Shireen remarks, knowing that it's Robert's tendency towards flowery phrasing that has Gilly giggling,

 

 

   “He is a little odd, but he means well. I'm sure with time he'll learn to temper his more... romantic inclinations.”

 

 

   “Romantic?” Gilly snorts, then looks at Shireen with a raised brow and a barely restrained smile on her lips,

 

 

   “My lady, there's parts here my boys would think were too soppy if I were reading it to them out of one of the great tales! Particularly about you!”

 

 

   “Ha,” Shireen allows herself a somewhat dry exclamation, waving her hand dismissively,

 

 

   “If only I could show you what he's doubtless written to lady Stark! No, Gilly - honestly there is nothing there that I was not expecting to see. I may have taught Lord Arryn what I could about managing his affairs and behaving according to his station and the responsibilities that confers, but there is a part of him that is still a child with his head in the clouds, dreaming of knights and princesses,” and then she catches herself frowning and utters in a somewhat darker tone,

 

 

   “I only hope the wars to come don't rob him of that. We've all had enough taken from us.”

 

 

   Gilly's eyes are sympathetic, but Shireen steels herself and shakes off the melancholy, continuing more briskly,

 

 

   “But what's important to note is that his support is declared unreservedly, and that it's clear he considers us close, still - he may seem flighty and childish and even a little silly, but I promise you Gilly, no one takes his honour more seriously than does Lord Arryn. Once he has given his word, he will keep it until he breathes his last. I have no reservations whatsoever in giving you and the children into his care if there comes a need, and I know he will regard it as his duty to care for you as I do.”

 

 

   “Seems he gives his love same as his word,” Gilly replies, a soft and unobtrusive observation, and Shireen balks before she can control the impulse, an unsteady laugh startled out of her.

 

 

   “What do you mean? Robert's even younger than I am, Gilly, he's no concept of - ”

 

 

   Her words fade in the face of Gilly's frank, open gaze, and Shireen sighs and slumps in her seat, pushing her hair behind her ear even though there is no need, and looking away for a moment.

 

 

   “I don't meant to overstep, your Grace,” Gilly says, low, but with intent,

 

 

   “But you can't say it hasn't crossed your mind. I'm sure it'll have crossed the King's.”

 

 

   “The King is aware that now is absolutely not the time for such a discussion,” Shireen states with finality, and then she softens, because she knows Gilly means no harm, that she isn't trying to force the issue or make Shireen commit one way or the other, and she shakes her head ruefully and admits,

 

 

   “No, Gilly - I'm not cross with you for thinking it, and you're not overstepping. It's true, I have discussed this with my father in the past, and it's true, it would not be the worst imaginable match, and I do care for Robert deeply, I won't deny that, but I care for him as I would a brother, and my father knows this. Just as he knows that politically it cannot be discounted as an option, and that perhaps in the future we will have to revisit the possibility, but I do not think it is likely to happen.”

 

 

   “Can I ask why not?” Gilly inquires gently, and Shireen is not sure she quite likes how careful Gilly is being of Shireen's feelings in this, because as far as Shireen is concerned it is all but impossible that it will ever come to pass and so she isn't truly upset by the idea anymore.

 

 

   “Politics aside, Gilly, I am not the sort of lady Robert Arryn could love for a wife,” Shireen tells her simply,

 

 

   “I think on that score his hopes are as high as his honour, and I am not romantic enough for him to regard me with the sort of feeling that I know he believes a man should feel for the woman he intends to marry.”

 

 

   “You think he'd refuse you? Refuse the King, if it was suggested?” Gilly exclaims, clearly perturbed and offended by the notion, and Shireen shrugs.

 

 

   “I think he and I would discuss the matter privately in the event it ever came to that, and he would very sweetly and courteously tell me that while he'll swear to me as his Queen, he cannot love me as a husband ought, and I would tell him that I understand, because I do, and we would inform the King that his finest hope for me in that respect was dashed, and my father would not press the issue,” she details, and Gilly frowns hard.

 

 

   “And why shouldn't he be able to love you as a husband?” she demands, and Shireen can't even feel irritated that Gilly persists, because it is clear that Gilly's reasoning is not unlike that of the King - they are both displeased with the idea that anyone might prefer a very different sort of lady to what Shireen clearly is, and Shireen cannot fault them for that or even be exasperated with them when it is a position they take on the strength of their love of her.

 

 

   “Because I view him as a beloved brother, and I believe he returns that affection as a brother would, but also because Robert Arryn's ideal lady is beautiful and fair and lovely just as those in the great tales and the old songs are, and I would never ask him to abandon his hope of finding such a lady who would have him in order to settle for me. We would not truly suit, Gilly,” Shireen replies as candidly but kindly as she can, because this is an old hurt for her, the realisation that she is going to be alone all her days, denied the companionship and love that she will do what she can to allow the people around her, and she sees that to Gilly, it comes as an unwelcome surprise, and Shireen doesn't know whether to be amused or simply deeply grateful that Gilly does not see the things which prevent Shireen from being able to hope for better, because those things are part of who Shireen is and they can't be helped.

 

 

   “Arryn would be lucky to have you even if you weren't a princess,” Gilly says fiercely, and Shireen smiles broadly for her vehemence in defending Shireen's worth.

 

 

   “I believe my father feels much the same as you,” she reveals,

 

 

   “But I also believe that should the time come to revisit the matter, he will leave the choice of it up to me. I know he doesn't want me to make a purely political match and he has pinned his hopes on the idea of Robert mainly because we get on well and there is genuine fondness there, but we can trust that Robert will never withdraw his loyalty, so I've no great need to bind him to me through marriage, and so when nothing comes of it, father won't be too disappointed. I do believe he will hope to the bitter end that I might marry for love as well as everything else I will need in a consort as Queen.”

 

 

   “Because you deserve it, my lady,” Gilly declares stoutly,

 

 

   “The King sees it same as we all do - he'd never want you in some dreadful loveless marriage that's more for the realm than for you. He wants you to be happy as well as safe, like any good parent.”

 

 

   “I know he does,” Shireen replies softly, casting her mind back to how it felt to be held by her father and assured of his love for her and his unwavering commitment to doing his utmost to ensure her continued security and wellbeing,

 

 

   “He said as much.”

 

 

   “Then I'm sure the King won't mind me saying a hearty bollocks to Lord Arryn if he'd prefer the lady Starks of this world over the princess Shireen Baratheon, and you'll have to forgive me as well, since you're his friend, but I've no use for any man who can't recognise you for what you really are,” Gilly says tartly, drawing herself up in readiness to be punished if Shireen takes offence at her frank treatment of Lord Arryn and her vulgarity, as if Shireen has ever punished her for anything, but Shireen simply dissolves into heartfelt laughter, because in that moment she is utterly sure that Gilly and her father are of one united mind on the matter, and the idea of that is hilarious to Shireen, and Gilly cracks a smile as well and then moves in to take Shireen's empty cup and bring her more tea, liberally spooning honey into it before she puts the cup back where Shireen left it, and by then Shireen's mirth has subsided and she is composed enough to wipe her eye delicately and recall the events of even earlier.

 

 

   “Speaking of recognising me,” she says pensively, her tone making Gilly turn from where she is getting herself a cup of tea as well, and regard her inquiringly,

 

 

   “I went to greet Davos earlier, and I saw some of the Skagosi he brought, and do you know, Gilly, not a one of those who looked at me seemed at all concerned? It was the strangest thing!”

 

 

   “So I suppose they're not soulless savages after all,” Gilly replies promptly, looking viciously satisfied and even vindicated by this news,

 

 

   “If they can handle it better than your own people do!”

 

 

   “That's what was so strange,” Shireen agrees, picking up her cup and holding it, leaning forward to watch Gilly pull up her own chair so they can speak on a level,

 

 

   “When they arrived, all around me I heard our own southerners saying the most dreadful things about them - all that prejudiced nonsense, since I doubt a single one of them has ever even met anyone from Skagos - and those are some of the same who flinch from me and are still afraid of my scales, some who even pulled away from me when they saw me approach, and yet when I ran down to greet Davos properly, I nearly collided with one of those so-called savages and he barely reacted at all! Couldn't have missed seeing me, and didn't seem to care - none of them who saw me seemed to care!”

 

 

   Gilly's frown, materialising when Shireen speaks of the difficulty her own father's bannermen sometimes have in responding to the sight of her without fear, has grown thoughtful again, and she tilts her head to regard Shireen closely.

 

 

   “That is strange, my lady,” she murmurs, and Shireen nods and takes a quick sip of her tea to smooth her voice, and then acknowledges,

 

 

   “It is! I would have thought of all the northerners I've yet met, they would be the worst about it, and I imagined it would take twice as long to win them over to the notion that I am not going to infect them all as it did with your people, but instead it was as if they were utterly indifferent to it! Here I've been so worried that father would be forced to keep me away from them in case they tried to hurt me for it, like - ”

 

 

   “That vile bitch, may she rot, and may the lady Ygritte be blessed forever for making it so,” Gilly supplies, intoning her usual curse and blessing whenever the matter of the wildling Val and the end she met after attempting to bring about Shireen's murder is raised, and Shireen flashes Gilly a quick smile for it and goes on,

 

 

   “As you say - and yet those of them who saw me were clearly unaffected to a one! Do you suppose they've simply never seen greyscale before and don't know to fear it?”

 

 

   “I couldn't say, my lady,” Gilly mulls over the possibility,

 

 

   “All I really know about them comes from the stories. Sam might know more, but I can't say I think it's likely that anyone who's written about them will have thought to notice this sort of thing, or ask them what sort of diseases they know of.”

 

 

   “I suppose not,” Shireen allows, chewing her lip briefly, and then she admits, a little shamefully,

 

 

   “I liked it, though, Gilly. I was shocked at first, but then I realised I liked it, that none of them reacted to it. That I could have been anyone, any healthy, normal person, to their eyes for as much as they seemed to care. If it's true that they simply don't know yet, it won't be long before they're told, and then...”

 

 

   “You're afraid they might start acting like everyone else, or worse,” Gilly finishes for her, quiet and deeply feeling, and Shireen nods and looks into the depths of her tea sadly.

 

 

   “It was so... well, shocking, as I said, initially, but then... it was so wonderful, not to be feared, not to be hated on sight,” she confesses quietly,

 

 

   “I have never known that. Even from those who were forewarned and good enough to keep their reactions to themselves more or less, there is always that moment where you see their surprise or their revulsion, before they can master it. Even the Lord Commander, when first we met, before he could hide it, there was pity in his eyes, and I know now it was only because he is a good man and a kind one and he felt for the burdens fate had laid upon a child, but still... Once, just once, I would have liked to be seen only as myself. All my life, I have dreamt of that, and here are a people who seem to, and...”

 

 

   “You deserve that. It is not wrong to want it, or want to keep it,” Gilly tells her, reaching to hold Shireen's hand in comfort, her tone warm and sincere and loving, and Shireen nods for the truth she knows is there, but still has to swallow tears when she raises her gaze to meet Gilly's again, putting on a smile that is more bravery so that she can maintain her dignity, and gratitude for Gilly's support, than anything else.

 

 

   “I know. And even if it is all gone by tomorrow once they've doubtless been enlightened one way or the other, I will always have had my dream fulfilled. I was beheld without fear, and that is all I prayed for, when I still prayed. I will have had that, now,” she says as evenly as she can although she can't help but be certain that now she has had it, it will hurt the more to see it replaced by that fear she so despises and wishes she could erase in everyone.

 

 

   “What do you pray for now, my lady?” Gilly asks gently, clearly trying to draw Shireen's thoughts away from where they have wandered to a morning where she will again be viewed with disgust by all, and Shireen allows it because in truth she doesn't want to dwell on that either.

 

 

   “It is a long, long while since last I prayed to any god,” she says honestly,

 

 

   “You know I've no faith any longer. Now... now, my prayers are all love and hope. That's all I have faith in. The things I know, and the people I love, and all my best hopes for them.”

 

 

   “They'll be answered,” Gilly says with complete conviction,

 

 

   “And you should be writing your answer to Lord Arryn, for all I hate what you'll be arranging, before I've kept you up all night talking when you've a council first thing.”

 

 

   She rises with a last kiss to Shireen's hand, and puts her chair away and drains her own tea, and then tidies after herself, asking as she does and Shireen turns to actually begin writing her response to Robert, smiling privately for how she doubts Gilly realises that the way she speaks is very close to how she speaks to the boys when she is sending them to bed,

 

 

   “Will you be wanting me for anything else?”

 

 

   “Oh, no, Gilly, I'll be fine,” Shireen tells her, already laying down the first words of her reply in ink,

 

 

   “You know I've no dresses I can't manage on my own, and you've already seen to my hair and everything else even though no one asked you to.”

 

 

   From the corner of her eye she sees how Gilly rolls hers at the teasing tone as she slides heated stones into Shireen's bed to warm it so Shireen won't have time to catch a chill when she slides in herself soon, and Gilly huffs,

 

 

   “If I only did as you asked and not what I'm meant to, you'd starve yourself to nothing and wear yourself to the bone and then where'd we be!”

 

 

   “We would be utterly lost without you,” Shireen says over her shoulder, completely honest but with a smile Gilly can't mistake as anything but signifying the depth of Shireen's love of her, and she grins back and jokes,

 

 

   “I consider it all practice for when you eventually name me Hand of the Queen, since I don't see anyone else about who can manage it and by the time your father's ready to pass on the crown, Ser Seaworth will have earned his retirement by a warm fire surrounded by grandchildren more times over than bears thinking of!”

 

 

   Shireen laughs aloud at that, the image so delightful that it gives her new strength of purpose, to hear her wishes and ambitions spoken by someone she trusts to help her try and see it become a reality, and she looks to Gilly again, who has one hand on the door, and tells her, still merry,

 

 

   “Consider the position yours, lady Tarly, for you are rarely wrong and certainly not in this!”

 

 

   “And don't I know it,” Gilly tells her with a wink and another grin, and then she points a finger at Shireen and warns,

 

 

   “Now to bed with you once that letter's done, your Grace, I'll see it sent in the morning myself.”

 

 

   “I have no doubt whatsoever that you will,” Shireen replies without reservation, and Gilly smiles at her so sweetly before she leaves that Shireen finds herself smiling all the way through as she finishes her letter to Robert asking for help she knows will be given out of love and respect, and indeed when she slips into bed and it is warm and cosy from Gilly's care and cleverness, she smiles still.

 

 

   Even if tomorrow she finds that all those who have come to their aid now hate and fear her equally for things beyond her control, she will find the strength to endure it, for she has felt glances that did not mark her any different from any other person at last, and she rests secure in the knowledge that all her love and hope for the future is as well placed as it is possible to be, and that is enough for her.

 

 

   -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons related to my health, in future until I am fully recovered, no further updates will be published unless the most recently posted chapters of my works receive three comments minimum, as it transpires that it apparently does not do the slowly healing 3rd degree burn on my dominant hand any favours that I get overly excited and write and publish upwards of 20,000 words of fic in under a week, so I am creating this rule in hopes it will give me incentive to make myself take breaks so I don't aggravate my injury.
> 
> I sincerely hope that you will all be understanding of my need to do this - I am terrible at self-care at the best of times and if I don't make a few rules for it I will neglect my healing process entirely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  [Picset](http://valkyrien.tumblr.com/post/146990936924/the-rumour-that-there-is-a-wolf-among-them)

 

 

 

   It has been hours, she knows, though there are no windows here to help her tell the passage of time by the growing light of day, and in any case that light is always much the same here by the Wall and so cannot be relied upon to judge such things, but Shireen knows they have been at this too long by the unnatural enforced stiffness in her father's posture and the growing irritation among the council members that informs their gradually more hostile and argumentative remarks.

 

 

   “ - can't wait for it all to be worked for use, we don't have the time!”

 

 

   “Then what do you suggest - we send men into battle with weapons we know won't kill these creatures while we wait to be able to supply them with ones that can? What was the point in waiting for all that bloody dragonglass if we can't use it!”

 

 

   Beside her, Shireen can hear her father's teeth grinding steadily, and a glance at his hands reveals them to be tightly clenched on the arms of his chair, and she knows that his patience with this discussion is wearing dangerously thin, just as she knows from a look at Sam that he is not sure enough of himself to cut across the argument with cold facts and tell the council what must be done here - not that it would be much help if he did, for they have already proven themselves more than willing to discard his opinion in favour of their own.

 

 

   The problem is that they now have enough obsidian to arm everyone, but more than half of what was brought has yet to be fashioned into weaponry, has come in its freshly mined state, and by Sam's estimation it will take a week or more to achieve that goal, even if every wildling here capable of working the stuff does nothing else, for it is not an easy material and the southerners know nothing of its use while the northerners have not traditionally used it for weaponry except when they have bartered for weapons already made of it and so aren't much help either.

 

 

   Meanwhile reports speak of the advancement of the Others close to Eastwatch and Greenguard, that they appear to also be closing in near to Sentinel Stand and the Shadow Tower, close enough that action must be taken to prevent further progression, meaning they must take priority and be appropriately armed as swiftly as possible.

 

 

   All this has been put to those present, all this should have been put to rest with a firm decision already, Shireen feels, and yet for hours now they have been at this, the various factions demanding that they shore up the keeps where the bulk of their own people are stationed or which seem to them to be most strategically sound to move from later, or even that some of the keeps be abandoned now at the nth hour as though they have not all spent years working to adequately refurbish and re-garrison them in preparation for this bloody war.

 

 

   It is almost enough to make Shireen try her hand at her father's old habit of grinding teeth over words that can't be spoken, but she tamps down on the urge to do something to relieve her frustration, and instead looks to where the Lord Commander sits with that expression of his that is equal parts sullen resentment and perturbation and worry, clearly as sick of all this as she but having also had little success in arguing for the targeted strengthening of the more threatened castles as the council continues to go back and forth and allow their personal agendas to triumph over cold reason.

 

 

   That such a thing should happen now, in this place, when they will be fighting a war against winter personified, is enough to make Shireen want to laugh, but she does not.

 

 

   Instead, she straightens in her seat and waits for a slight lull in the backbiting and uselessly circular arguing, seizing on it the moment it arrives and using it to loudly ask,

 

 

   “Lord Commander - our Skagosi reinforcements have given you leave to speak for them in this, have they not?”

 

 

   Jon Snow immediately snaps to attention where he sits, all trace of petulance wiped from his face and replaced by focus and seriousness, and he nods to her and replies,

 

 

   “Aye, your Grace, they have,” and though she can tell by the pinched frown he still wears that he is not sure where she is going with this, she can also see that he realises she does have a direction, so she nods back once, curtly, and states,

 

 

   “Ser Tarly informs me that they are well known for their skill at working the dragonglass into weapons, that they trade such things with the mainland at times. He also informs me that all those arrived carry at least one obsidian weapon already.”

 

 

   “That's true, your Grace,” Jon Snow says with slow wariness, letting her lead him but unsure as to where, cutting a look to Sam quickly that Shireen does not follow with her own eyes, knowing that Sam will support her in this just as she has supported him, if there's a need.

 

 

   “If asked, would they aid the wildlings and free folk who share the knowledge of it in working what was mined at Dragonstone for use? That would cut Ser Tarly's estimated week of waiting before all can be armed by half at least,” she asks, taking care to make her inflection less suggestion and more command, and she sees the flash of surprise and then understanding in the Lord Commander's eyes, and the way he leans forward a little in a show of controlled enthusiasm at what she personally feels is the first sensible thing that anyone has said for at least an hour, though they be her own words.

 

 

   “I have their word that they will do whatever is necessary to help us - I don't see why they'd refuse,” he says honestly, and Shireen keeps her eyes on his although in her peripheral vision she can see southerners fidgeting with discontentment and northerners looking askance at the idea of asking the Skagosi to do anything.

 

 

   “It is a shame that I cannot ask their leaders myself, as they have elected not to join us here, but they named you their speaker and so I see no reason not to trust that they will agree when asked, and that this falls under the category of whatever is necessary, as it is not only necessary but essential that this task be completed with all possible haste,” Shireen declares, and beside her, her father's teeth stop grinding, and the Lord Commander looks at her with grim approval.

 

 

   “It will be done, your Grace,” he vows, bending his neck to her a touch while maintaining eye contact, and she holds it for a moment and then looks to the rest of the council, keeping her voice strong and letting her gaze rest hard on each of them in turn as she goes on.

 

 

   “Then it is settled. Ser Tarly will conduct a further assessment of precisely how this will shorten the wait to arm everyone. In the meantime, it seems to me that the only possible course of action is to concentrate our reinforcements and current armaments in the places which have seen the worst advance of Others of late and need it the most to resist. We cannot afford to leave the Wall weak anywhere - we have worked too hard and too long to strengthen the length of it in full; withdrawing from any of the castles is not an option and I have yet to hear a single argument for why it ought be that was not rooted in either fear or selfishness, both things we can ill afford on the eve of war,” she says ruthlessly, inwardly relishing that some of the assembled council flinch when her gaze alights upon them.

 

 

   “Your Grace, we cannot trust to the hope of those savages keeping their word,” Lord Peasebury says immediately, and Shireen narrows her eyes at his tone - patronising and overbearing, as though he has said anything himself these past hours that was even approaching as practical as what she has just decided, and then he appeals to her father in ingratiating tones, even daring to smile as though they two men can somehow order this between them better than she has just done,

 

 

   “My King, surely you see this as I do - it would be well if all men were so noble as the princess believes, but we know that is not the case, and we cannot act on her say alone when the matter is so gravely important!”

 

 

   “Have a care how you speak of my daughter who will be your Queen after I am gone,” Stannis snaps at once, wrenching his jaw open violently to do so and glaring hatefully at the man, who shrinks from the unexpected wrath of the King as he continues,

 

 

   “You can't claim but that she has the right of it - not a single one of you has made a better suggestion for all we've been at this so long now you've all started to sound like fishwives over the price of bait!”

 

 

   “But your Grace, we can't _trust_ the Skaggs - they can't even be arsed to join the council!” the younger Norrey cries, sounding deeply affronted, and Shireen abruptly loses her temper.

 

 

   “My dear Ser Norrey,” she snarls, unable to keep the fury from her tone but keeping her expression icy,

 

 

   “I say this with all possible respect for your house and yourself, but use your head! They've come even further than you and yours to aid us - do you suppose they made the journey from the black isle burdened with several boats worth of dragonglass through storms as a sort of pleasure cruise? What earthly reason could they have chosen to come for if not to do just as they've said and lend their support here wherever they can?”

 

 

   He looks instantly chastened, but casts his gaze to the side and begins to mumble under his breath, and Shireen abandons all semblance of composure and slams her hand against the table to recapture his undivided attention, liking how it makes him jump and refusing to feel a shred of guilt for it, demanding,

 

 

   “You will look at me when I speak to you, Ser, and you will answer when questioned! I am more than aware of the prejudicial views most of you and your people have regarding the Skagosi but they do none of us any good here, and if you are such small men that you cannot set that aside and accept that we must be united in the face of the threat we have gathered to extinguish then I fear for our cause, I truly do! What - do you suppose they have made the trip here simply to lure you all into a false sense of security so that they can pick over your corpses and steal your lands when the Others have destroyed us all? Do you think they are somehow immune to this plague we are here to fight, that they will survive long enough to play at being carrion crows when the Others wipe us all out?”

 

 

   She can see Norrey grit his teeth, but his expression speaks of shame rather than an anger fit to answer hers, and he does not fight her, instead he meets her gaze with the dawning light of respect and acceptance in his face though it remains twisted with displeasure, and says, clearly albeit bitterly,

 

 

   “No, your Grace. Forgive me.”

 

 

   “I will forgive you this once out of my regard for your house and all that you have done for us - you may recall that is why I asked the King to grant you your knighthood when Winterfell was won - but I will not forgive again if you forget to show regard of your own when and where it is due,” Shireen says harshly, and Norrey bows his head to her awkwardly, murmuring,

 

 

   “Of course, your Grace, thank you, I am grateful,” and beside her Shireen sees her father set his mouth in a less aggrieved line, and nod, and then she addresses Jon Snow again, asking,

 

 

   “Lord Commander - is it not so that the Skagosi have elected you to speak for them here because the majority of them do not speak the Common Tongue and they came at your request and so trust you to represent them?”

 

 

   “It is, your Grace,” he replies promptly and with the utmost respect evident in his face and voice, and Shireen smiles.

 

 

   “Well then, now that we have laid all that to rest,” she says briskly, turning to the King and appealing soberly,

 

 

   “Father, am I so far in error here that you cannot agree with me?”

 

 

      “Not at all,” Stannis says curtly, eyeing his council with distaste and directing his next words at them,

 

 

   “We've come to _this_ , for all we've been talking for hours, this petty squabbling that leads you all to forget your place,” he spits, sounding disgusted,

 

 

   “And it takes my daughter's judgment and rational mind to find the only possible course of action when a council of full-grown men could not settle anywhere close while maintaining their dignity or relying on practicality and honour to guide them!”

 

 

   “My King, it is commendable of the princess to speak so prettily for the Skagosi, but they are not pets to be cosseted - they are little better than beasts,” Lord Staedmon says almost casually,

 

 

   “But they are fierce fighters and if they are truly already armed for the task and desirous of proving their loyalty as sworn to you and your cause, why not send them to meet the threat at the Shadow Tower and Sentinel Stand - let them there show their worth and earn their place in the eyes of the other men.”

 

 

    “You mean use them by sending them before us all to fight a battle you have spent the past however many hours arguing to keep your own men out of?” Shireen demands, appalled, and she is deeply gratified to have her father echo her at once with a hard and angry,

 

 

   “The suggestion that we send our allies to be slaughtered in our place in a fight you have just spent a good long while trying to get out of yourself does not become you, Staedmon, but I am no longer much surprised by your lack of valour or honour - don't think we've forgotten how long it took you to return to us after that Lannister abomination was finally taken care of!”

 

 

   Staedmon shrinks back at the mention of his cowardice and betrayal, but he does reply in tones of appeasement,

 

 

   “Forgive me, your Graces, I only thought it might remove the obstacle of mistrust felt by our people if we could have some gesture from our Skagosi allies to show beyond doubt that they are for our cause.”

 

 

   “We have it already,” Stannis says firmly,

 

 

   “They are here.”

 

 

   It pleases Shireen to see Staedmon accept this without further ado, though he has been on shaky ground ever since he returned to her father's side, his claims that he seeks to redeem himself and prove his loyalty ringing false to her when he has done little but try and get out of actually fighting for his sworn King since the moment he arrived.

 

 

   “It will be as the princess has said,” Stannis declares in tones that brook absolutely no argument, rising and glaring round at the assembled and ensuring no man escapes his bitter scrutiny,

 

 

   “We will send the necessary armaments to the threatened keeps. We will hold the line; we will not allow any castle to be weaker than any other, for we cannot afford any link in the chain to be broken. Meanwhile, those among us who have the knowledge of it will work the dragonglass for use so that it can be distributed to all in due course. We will continue to scout the positions of the enemy and keep a weather eye on their advancement. There is no other way. Ser Tarly, you will assess what needs assessing. Lord Commander, I trust you to pass the order to those we'll be relying on to arm us better. That is all.”

 

 

   Sam and Jon Snow both bow their heads to Stannis and murmur their assent and understanding, and then the King says,

 

 

   “Then we are done here,” and turns to Davos, leaving with a hand on the onion knight's shoulder, already deep in low conversation as the council breaks up with many a muttered curse and kicked bench, and Shireen herself takes care to rise from her own seat as though she is not all but numb from the waist down and her feet do not feel the prickle of ghostly pins at having been still so long, and makes to leave the hall herself.

 

 

   “Your Grace? May I ask - a moment of your time, please?” comes the voice of the younger Norrey close at hand, and Shireen turns to face him, keeping her face carefully neutral.

 

 

   “Certainly, Ser Norrey,” she replies evenly,

 

 

   “What troubles you?”

 

 

   “I - ” he looks over her shoulder very briefly, no doubt at the disapproving frown of the Lord Commander, whom Shireen has just passed, and then fairly jumps to attention and focuses wholly on her with painful regret and sincerity, blurting,

 

 

   “I shouldn't have questioned you, and I'm sorry, I meant no disrespect, I swear!”

 

 

   “I know you meant none towards me, Ser,” Shireen says calmly,

 

 

   “But you meant it towards our allies, and I would have you remember that when you and the other northern clansmen came to our aid years ago to fight a common foe and restore the Starks to their lands and seat as our common goal, my father's men had difficulty accepting _your_ people, and I defended you then as I defend the Skagosi now.”

 

 

   “I know, your Grace, and I'm ashamed I spoke the way I did,” Norrey says with deep contrition writ large all over him,

 

 

   “I swear to you I'll never do it again, and I won't question you, or the motives of our allies until they give me reason to.”

 

 

   “Unless,” Shireen corrects him, keeping her gaze hard on his until he looks suitably cowed and nods his surrender, echoing her,

 

 

   “Unless, of course, your Grace, I meant unless.”

 

 

   “You did not,” Shireen knows, and making sure he sees that she is well aware of it and disapproves strongly, but then she lets her expression shift to graciousness and relents,

 

 

   “But you are forgiven, and I trust that you do mean it when you tell me you mean to mend your ways and abandon your prejudices. I know that can be easier said than done, but bear in mind these people have done nothing to you and yours to make you mistrust them so. You've more cause to resent southerners - ” and she sees the guilty flicker in his eyes and smiles wryly, noting,

 

 

   “And of course, you do. I understand.”

 

 

   “But not you, or the King, your Grace, I swear,” he trips over himself to assure her, and he is earnest enough in it that she laughs and waves her hand and reassures him in turn,

 

 

   “I know, I know - truly, Ser, I believe you. I take you at your word. You've given me no reason to do otherwise. Don't let it trouble you any further.”

 

 

   “Thank you, your Grace,” he tells her with hapless gratitude, and she smiles more warmly, for she has never expected truly courtly manners from any of the northern lords or their sons or people, but those who have been long at her father's side do try, if only for her sake, and it endears them to her if for no other reason than it shows she matters enough to them to merit the effort, and the Norreys have shown their loyalty in particular, and are high in her esteem, and she does not want there to be any quarrel or resentment between herself and they.

 

 

   “Of course,” she tells him, and he ducks out of her presence with a bow and a quick smile, and she turns back on her path only to find that the Lord Commander is indeed just there and clearly also waiting for a moment of her time.

 

 

   “A word, your Grace?” he asks her, brow still pinched in his serious concerned way, and she nods with a slight frown of her own, concerned for how he appears still so harried, and she takes his proffered arm without a second thought, and allows him to lead her from the hall, trusting him enough not to take particular note of their path.

 

 

   “Is everything alright, Lord Commander?” she inquires quietly, adapting her tone when at first he seems unhappier still at how she speaks without thought for their being overheard, knowing him well enough by now to see that is what is wrong, and he glances at her quickly and then directs his gaze outward instead, mumbling,

 

 

   “Yes, and no.”

 

 

   “Oh?” she inquires, prompting only gently, for she knows too well how burdened with concern Jon Snow is at the best of times, and how deeply uncomfortable he is in the presence of women still, not unlike her father in that, and how all this grows worse whenever he is parted from the Lady Ygritte, but Shireen also knows that is the key to soothing much of his worry, and so instead of pressing for whatever matter he wishes to discuss, she says courteously,

 

 

   “Well I have no objection to walking with you anywhere, my lord, whether we're to speak or no. Have you had any news of your lady and how she does? She is sorely missed.”

 

 

   She is rewarded by the way a warmth enters his face, as if the sun has returned to his world to brighten his path, and he graces her with an almost shy smile and looks as close to pleased as he ever does when Ygritte herself is not present, and he tells her with that blend of pride and devotion which is always in him when he speaks of his wife,

 

 

   “I have, yes - she only wrote briefly, with her report, but she is well and she asked that I tell you she looks forward to seeing you again, and Gilly.”

 

 

   Shireen smiles back with deeply felt affection to hear it, for she is as fond of Ygritte as she is of Gilly, and they do indeed miss her terribly while she is off inspecting the other keeps, and Shireen is glad to hear that Ygritte made special mention of she and Gilly in her latest missive, for she knows better than any how Ygritte hates to write, since it is Shireen who taught her, along with Gilly, and how she therefore keeps her reports and all other communications as brief and to the point as possible. It is a quality which has much recommended her to Stannis, who despises the sort of lord who waxes on and on in writing when there are matters of import to be settled or relayed, but Shireen has at times wondered whether perhaps the Lord Commander is not the sort of man whose soul might yearn for something more from his lady than a precise report and a hastily dashed-off line to him on her personal wellbeing and wish to be returned to him.

 

 

   For all Jon Snow is as serious a man as Shireen has ever met, there is something lost and hurt in him which she has seen Ygritte alone banish, and Ygritte has even told Shireen privately that he has an ill-concealed romantic streak which would no doubt appreciate more in-depth writings than Ygritte feels a need to pen, or has the skill to. Still, there can be no doubt that the Lady Commander is at least as much in love with the Lord Commander as he is with her, and it delights Shireen to see, for it was she who convinced her father to marry them properly once it became clear to her that they both wished it.

 

 

   Shireen must also smile a little at how Jon Snow is at last comfortable enough with Gilly not to stumble over her given name - a victory hard-won despite how close in friendship Sam and he are, and how Alester and Aemon utterly worship him to the point they call him Uncle with far more seriousness than they call Shireen 'Mother', for even before Gilly had anything but her first name to be called by, Jon Snow always appeared discomfited by saying it, and Shireen knows now after a night of shared confidences and laughing with Ygritte long ago when they were building their friendship that it is because for all he was bastard born, he _was_ raised to good, even lordly, manners by the Starks, and at his core the idea of addressing any woman whom he is not related to informally seems disrespectful and overly intimate to him.

 

 

   “I am relieved to hear it,” Shireen tells him sincerely,

 

 

   “Of course we have all possible faith in her capabilities, but it is never easy not to worry for those we love when we are apart from them.”

 

 

   “That is true,” he murmurs, the weight of his great responsibilities and sorrows suddenly heavy upon him again, and then he seems to gather himself to the task he must undertake, and he says with great solemnity,

 

 

   “Your Grace, I have been asked - charged, rather - to tell you something, and I am not sure how to go about it.”

 

 

   “I see,” Shireen replies gravely, not wanting to assume anything until she has details, but trusting that it must be important and worthy of her most serious consideration,

 

 

   “Whatever it is, I hope you know that you may trust me with it and that I will do what I can to give you my support or aid as needed.”

 

 

   “It's your support that's been noted,” Jon Snow says softly, going so far as to incline his head towards her and draw her a little nearer his side as they skirt a group of soldiers by a doorway they pass through, his gaze dark and grave,

 

 

   “For the new arrivals.”

 

 

   “Ah,” Shireen utters carefully, keeping her face quite impassive,

 

 

   “And has it been noted for good or ill?”

 

 

   “Both,” he tells her bluntly, taking care of his own to keep himself between her and another group loitering in the hallway,

 

 

   “But I'm only asked to speak for one side of it.”

 

 

   “Then please do,” she invites him, and he frowns.

 

 

   “I'm not sure how,” he confesses, looking torn,

 

 

   “It's more delicate than it seems. These are not my own secrets.”

 

 

   “Then tell me what you can and what you have been charged to, and I will promise not to speculate or pass judgment on any party until I know all,” Shireen suggests calmly, and Jon Snow glances at her with a minute smile on his lips and ducks his head briefly, muttering,

 

 

   “You make it sound easy, your Grace...”

 

 

   “It can be made easy, if you will tell me what you can as directly as you are able to,” she insists, letting her expression betray nothing of the curiosity or confusion she feels, and he is silent for several brisk paces before they come to the entrance to the kitchens and he halts them both in an alcove and seems to end his private deliberations.

 

 

   “There are those,” he begins, low and bent towards her for she is nowhere near tall enough to hear him at this volume if he does not,

 

 

   “Who do not appreciate our reinforcements. You have seen it.”

 

 

   “I have. It is no different than the situation with the wildlings, or that of the clansmen, when they joined our cause,” Shireen says diffidently,

 

 

   “As I was just telling Ser Norrey. The prejudice will not be tolerated - it puts us all at risk. Neither I nor the King will accept it.”

 

 

   “It isn't that easy, your Grace,” the Lord Commander sighs, but without condescension, not even in the ghost of a smile in his frown, not talking down to her but acknowledging her highest expectations,

 

 

   “You can't command the hearts and minds of men.”

 

 

   “No,” Shireen says simply, though keeping her eyes firmly fixed on his,

 

 

   “But we can set a better example, and command that any deeds done which do not meet the standards we hold to are punished accordingly, and that we will do.”

 

 

   “We can try to,” he acknowledges, a new crease upon his brow,

 

 

   “But it concerns me that they've been here all of a day and already it's being said that you favour them.”

 

 

   “I favour no one,” Shireen replies with her own frown,

 

 

   “Surely that's clear. I have no interest in favouring any above others - I have so far only spoken for our new allies when they have been unfairly spoken of by those who should know better.”

 

 

   “I know that,” Jon Snow mumbles, eyes darting past her for a moment,

 

 

   “So does anyone with sense. But that doesn't discourage the rumours.”

 

 

   “Rumours born of jealousy and foolishness, or created out of spite, are of no interest to me,” Shireen says firmly, keeping her expression resolute,

 

 

   “I will continue to do what is right, and those who wish to speak of it may do so as they please, though if they have time to gossip perhaps that is time that could be otherwise occupied. My actions will speak for themselves.”

 

 

   The Lord Commander quirks a quickly-fading smile of exasperated respect at that, and says with something close to apologetic fondness,

 

 

   “Your Grace, you will forgive me when I say I expected no less from you, but you do not need to give these people another reason to dislike you. Those whom I speak for have noted your support, and trust in it - they don't want you to suffer for it any more than I do. They understand your position.”

 

 

   “I cannot ask anyone to trust in my word if I do not keep to it,” Shireen replies very calmly, making sure to keep her posture stiff and straight,

 

 

   “Silence and passivity are as good as breaking my word. What good is my support if it is uttered once and then never again even when it is questioned, or trespassed against by those who think it is misplaced?”

 

 

   “You are very like the King,” Jon Snow sighs, his hinted smile now weary and rueful,

 

 

   “It does you credit, but it makes you that much harder to protect.”

 

 

   “I do not ask for your protection, Lord Commander,” Shireen says with compassion and understanding, for she can see how this imposed duty of care wears on him, not least because she cannot make it easier without abandoning her own duty and principles,

 

 

   “I only ask that you give me your support as I give you mine, and that you tell me the truth when you can.”

 

 

   “I have and I am,” he swears, grave and sorrowful,

 

 

   “That's why I'm telling you this - you may not be doing anything different from when we had these problems with the free folk and the wildlings, but there's more fear here to fight, and fear twists men's minds, as well you know. I've spoken with the Skagosi, and they're grateful you've taken a stand for them and won't see them treated any different than anyone else, but they know it won't make you popular, and that it makes you vulnerable. They won't hold it against you if you make your stand less publicly. It's enough that you've made your feelings known, and that you have the King's ear. No one expects any more from you than what you've already done.”

 

 

   “Perhaps not,” Shireen allows with serene diplomacy, but she is ruthlessly honest when she tells him softly,

 

 

   “But I expect it of myself. I know that you understand, I am only sorry that it makes you fear for me.”

 

 

   “You do not fear for yourself?” Jon Snow asks with some perturbation, and Shireen smiles up at him.

 

 

   “I am not helpless, Lord Commander,” she says kindly,

 

 

   “Nor am I unused to being wished dead. Your own lady, among others, have sought to ensure I know how to guard myself at least a little, and for the rest... I can promise you that I will be careful. I cannot promise that I will be silent for anyone's sake, least of all my own. I favour no one, and I will not allow it to be said that I do, or seem that I do by virtue of inaction, nor will I be manipulated by fear into doing the bidding of those who must become used to doing mine in time.”

 

 

   Perhaps it is the iron in her words coupled with her gentle tone that startles the rough chuckle out of him, but he shakes his head with it and says with dark humour,

 

 

   “Gods help those who try and bend you to their will by any means, my lady,” and she smiles with genuine mirth of her own and replies,

 

 

   “Oh, it won't help them, but I'm all in favour of religious freedom, so they can pray to whomever they like for it, it won't matter to me either way!”

 

 

   “That I believe,” Jon Snow says in a vaguely amused, tired tone, and then he sighs again and shrugs his shoulders back as though all the responsibilities he bears upon them could stand to be readjusted for his comfort, and at last he goes on,

 

 

   “I only felt I had to try to warn you - I never expected you to heed it. I can't think it's news to you that your people are sick of the North and happy to seize on any excuse to hate it more and be done with it.”

 

 

   “No, it is not news,” Shireen accepts, her heart as heavy as her words, but she shores them up with all the steel in her when she looks him squarely in the eye and declares,

 

 

   “But they swore to the King, and the King swore that we would see the North liberated, and we will go nowhere until it is done.”

 

 

   “I can't tell you what that means to us, to my family, what you're doing here,” Jon Snow murmurs with sudden depth of feeling, dark eyes earnest and sad, reminding her not for the first time of an abused dog shown a kind touch after a lifetime of hardships, though she keeps the symbol of his house in her thoughts always for she knows what a mistake it would be to underestimate him purely because he is capable also of proving himself a man of great emotion,

 

 

   “To the last of us, I swear we will remember this always.”

 

 

   “We only do what is right,” Shireen reiterates, though not unkindly, not unmoved, for she can see clearly that he is deeply cognisant of what her father has done for the Starks, and for the North, and that their promise not to abandon them does indeed carry great weight here and with Jon Snow and what remains of his kin, but the Lord Commander smiles at her in a flash of seldom-seen teasing.

 

 

   “That seems to be your new creed - do you plan to change your House words, your Grace?” he jests, and she shakes her head and calmly replies,

 

 

   “Not new, no, and no to the second also. That would be a grave error,” for that is certainly the truth and she knows that it is easy to forget looking at her, but she should also not be underestimated, for she is as much Baratheon as her father or her late uncle, and she will ensure that is not forgotten either.

 

 

   “Of course,” Jon Snow says quietly, bending his head in deference,

 

 

   “I never meant - ”

 

 

   “Oh really - of course you didn't! I took it for the jest it was, and a clever one at that, come now my lord,” Shireen laughs to ease his so easily prickled conscience, for he is also devoted to doing what is right and she won't have him feeling that he cannot speak freely with her or that she will think ill of him if he relaxes his rigid courtesy with her on occasion and unbends enough to smile and share a joke now and then,

 

 

   “I look on your lady as I would a sister, and if the Tarly boys call you Uncle with far more truth to it than when they call me Mother, I insist you don't stand on ceremony with me, really there is no need! I would greatly prefer it if we could be friends - not all at once of course, but perhaps with time - and you must not ever feel the need to curb your laughter with me. There is little enough joy in this world, and little enough of that here of all places, and I think between us we have had far less than our share, so please, feel perfectly free to share whatever lightness comes your way. I'd welcome every scrap!”

 

 

   “Another thing more easily said than done, my lady, but... I can try,” Jon Snow says seriously, as if taking on some grave task, and then remarking,

 

 

   “Though I daresay the King won't like it much.”

 

 

   “My father recognises the need for me to keep my own counsel and company as I see fit,” Shireen says simply,

 

 

   “There are few enough about whom I can trust with it and know they are not using me to be nearer him, but you and Ygritte, and the Tarlys, you I can trust, and I do, and I would be glad to be better friends with you particularly after knowing you so long.”

 

 

   “You don't think the King would frown on you associating with bastards?” Jon Snow asks wryly, and Shireen shakes her head.

 

 

   “Birth does not define worth. Besides, I associate freely with wildlings and count a fair few among my closest friends, and there are some who would say that is far worse than any bastard born to a nobleman. Truly, I do not care about such things, and nor does my father now that he has seen that even the noblest of lords can be utter bastards in their own right,” she says, free of judgment but making her feelings quite plain, and Jon Snow's smile is faint enough that Shireen can tell he is unused to anyone taking that attitude with regard to his station in life, which does not surprise her since she recalls how her own mother turned up her nose at him when they were introduced all those years ago and made no secret of her disdain.

 

 

   Almost amusing, considering her later attitudes to her own husband's relationship with another woman.

 

 

   “That's true enough,” he agrees gruffly, and then nods slowly and accepts,

 

 

   “Then I'll try. You're very kind, your Grace.”

 

 

   “We work with what we have,” Shireen waves off the compliment, for much as she knows this is indeed her greatest strength when it comes to winning others to her side, receiving kindness does not sit easy with her after learning to go most of her life without such sweet words and considerations,

 

 

   “But you said earlier that you had some secret to give into my keeping, if you could find a way about it, and nothing you have yet told me has been any such thing. Have you thought better of it?”

 

 

   He blinks at her as though surprised at her change of topic, and she thinks perhaps he had forgotten that he mentioned this at all, or is only surprised that she has not, and then he seems to reorder his thoughts, and he looks about them as if to make sure that there is no one nearby to overhear, and he keeps his voice very soft when he replies,

 

 

   “No, my lady - I just don't quite know where to begin. It concerns another rumour which may not be new to you. Regarding our newly-arrived allies from the black isle.”

 

 

   Shireen nods for him to continue, and a shadow passes over his face before he murmurs,

 

 

   “You may have heard... I know some of the men have been speaking of it, and Ser Seaworth may have made mention of it to you also, I couldn't say, he has been given leave, but...”

 

 

   “The rumour,” Shireen says slowly, making sure to speak only so loudly that he will still be able to hear her at all and keeping her face tilted so that her hair will obscure the side of her face which is turned outwards to the world still, hiding her expression even though she ensures that is also serious but otherwise impassive, for surely there can be only one thing which so concerns the Lord Commander that he can hardly bring himself to talk of it,

 

 

   “That there is a wolf among them?”

 

 

   “Yes,” Jon Snow tells her, eyes so intent she understands that he is both replying to and confirming what she says, and she can feel a slight frown pinch her face but smoothes it away immediately, only nodding once, very slightly and muttering,

 

 

   “I see... I had heard rumours. Nothing definite. Only loose remarks, questions uttered uncaringly... I do not believe you have a need to fear yet, if you are trying to keep it between a chosen few.”

 

 

   “Ser Seaworth, your father, and now you,” he informs her gravely, confirming her suspicions,

 

 

   “It is not my secret, as I said, and it is not yet the right time to tell it.”

 

 

   “No,” Shireen agrees entirely,

 

 

   “Best wait. I'll say nothing to anyone, you may rely on that, I only ask that if it is possible, you let me know before the appointed time of telling?”

 

 

   “My lady?” Jon Snow asks, a crease of confusion between his brows, and Shireen watches him steadily, surely.

 

 

   “When it is time, I will support you in every way that I can. You, and whoever you name. This I swear,” she tells him with low but grim rigidity of purpose, because she now understands precisely how heavy this burden must be for him to have carried, and the consequences its revelation will likely have, and she means him to know without any trace of doubt that she is committed to seeing right done there as well.

 

 

   The North will have its secession. It has been promised. Shireen will not renege on her father's vow to see this war through or to see the North healed, and a ruler crowned who will do so, and she will not have that be questioned for even a moment.

 

 

   “Your Grace - ” Jon Snow begins, and he looks as though he is going to once more inform her that her position is precarious, that it is folly and dangerous for her to commit so strongly to anything, to show her hand or even hint that she has one to show, but she cuts across him at once, because she has decided and so it shall be even if she must expose a budding friendship to just how glaring an error it would be to think that there could ever be House words but those of House Baratheon to indicate Shireen's true nature.

 

 

   “It has been sworn, and I am bound by it, but I have sworn it again for myself, and I will not be moved and I will not suffer to have my word challenged by anyone, Jon Snow,” she declares with unyielding conviction, softening her tone only slightly when she finishes,

 

 

   “I do hope you understand,” for she does hope that, for his sake and the sake of her continued high opinion of him, for she will not be discounted for her age or her gender or her supposed frailty and she will not have any man call her honour into question or dare try and give her a way around her own promises as though she has not fully considered their consequences before she makes them, and she sees the precise moment when Jon Snow realises this and surrenders to her greater strength of will, and so although it is not a gesture she likes much or enough to insist upon, it causes a bleak sense of satisfaction to see him bow to her as to a ruler.

 

 

   “I understand, and I thank you for it,” he says quietly,

 

 

   “I didn't mean to offend. Of course we would be honoured to have you stand with us when the time comes.”

 

 

   “I am not offended,” Shireen tells him honestly,

 

 

   “I was disappointed, for a moment, but now the moment is passed and I trust we are on the same page.”

 

 

   “We are, your Grace,” Jon Snow replies sincerely, solemn expression returned in full force, and Shireen nods.

 

 

   “In that case, we shall speak of it no more until the time is right,” she decides,

 

 

   “But please, convey my stance on the matters discussed to the appropriate parties.”

 

 

   “Of course, your Grace,” he nods back, and she begins to feel the press of fatigue behind her eyes.

 

 

   “And remember what I have said, Lord Commander,” she cautions, making it just a touch harsher than it needs to be to dispel any remaining doubt as to her pledge and its validity, and although she can see it sits ill with him, he echoes,

 

 

   “Of course, your Grace,” and bows again, and she can see that he is ready to take his leave of her, and so before he can do so, she addresses him a last time with,

 

 

   “One more thing,” and he frowns at her with slight bemusement and asks,

 

 

   “Your Grace?” and she smiles as warmly as she can.

 

 

   “Please remember what else we have spoken of - remember that you may always address me as freely as your lady does, and that I consider you both my friends,” she reminds him gently, and then adds on a sudden whim,

 

 

   “You, and your kin as well. I see no need for all this formality between us. You may extend my feelings on the matter to them also, at your discretion and convenience, of course.”

 

 

   She can tell by the way he seems taken aback and even blanches a little before a faint grimace comes upon his face that he knows what she is really saying, that she is extending this invitation to even those whom she has not yet met, but his reaction does surprise her in its vehemence just as his accompanying comment of,

 

 

   “You'll have to forgive me again, your Grace, but perhaps that is not so wise,” does, and he looks vaguely uneasy, but she has had about enough of being told she should guard herself better or else make it easier for others to do so, and she just shrugs and tells him quite frankly,

 

 

   “I see nothing to forgive, but I trust you to know it makes no difference to my decision. You and yours will always be welcome at my table and to speak to me as friends ought, and will be counted in my confidences, and I'd have that be known to who it may concern. All else that we have spoken of, will be as agreed upon. I thank you for your time and attention.”

 

 

   Recognising the dismissal and the order despite how she gave them, Jon Snow inclines his head to her and gives her the title she is due, and then he slips away and leaves her in the alcove to wonder why on earth he led them here, until she realises that of course this time of day, Gilly will doubtless be in the kitchen, and doubtless it was the Lord Commander's intention to deliver Shireen into the hands of someone else whom he trusts to watch for her, and so she enters the kitchen and casts about for familiar faces and is at once greeted by Gilly, who is indeed stood at one of the great tables and busily chopping herbs.

 

 

   “My lady!” she exclaims, putting aside her knife and wiping her hands on her apron before approaching Shireen to embrace her, and Shireen leans into it gratefully, feeling exhausted with the long and aggravating duties of the morn and the conversation with Jon Snow and the new secret she now bears in her breast for safekeeping which she cannot even be sure she will live to see realised, and perhaps Gilly can sense it all somehow, for she has Shireen seated upon a bench by her side almost at once and is plying her with hot tea and porridge before she can so much as blink it seems, and asking,

 

 

   “You've been at it an age, I'm amazed you didn't take root in there! How was the council?”

 

 

   “It seemed endless,” Shireen allows herself to complain finally, huffing,

 

 

   “ _Hours_ of squabbling! And I had to put Norrey in his place toward the end - it was all so disappointing, and I'd hoped the clansmen would be less hateful about the Skagosi at least, but it seems that was too much to ask for.”

 

 

   “Pah! _Norrey_ ,” Gilly utters scornfully, and Shireen is drawn from her irritated musings by curiosity, for this is not the first time Gilly has spoken thusly - in fact, she does so every time Norrey is mentioned.

 

 

   “You always say that,” she remarks with interest, noting the expression on Gilly's face, as though she's been caught in something,

 

 

   “Why is that? I hadn't realised you had something against Ser Norrey.”

 

 

   “Well, it's not exactly that, my lady,” Gilly hedges, looking cagy of a sudden, and Shireen is just annoyed enough with her day that she frowns and says,

 

 

   “Well alright then - keep your secrets, if you like, I just thought it odd,” and at once a wounded and apologetic air comes over Gilly and she lays down her knife again where she had recommenced chopping and turns towards Shireen to lay a hand on her wrist and say with sincere remorse,

 

 

   “Oh, it's _not_ like that, my lady - I don't want to keep secrets from you, it's only that I don't want to hurt you either, and I don't know whether it's best not to tell you about it or if it'd be just as well to let it lie, that's all!”

 

 

   “What?” Shireen asks with a confused smile and half a laugh, laying down her porridge spoon since she stilled her hands at once when Gilly touched her, and gives Gilly her full attention,

 

 

   “What are you talking about?”

 

 

   “Well...” Gilly looks away with an unhappy little pout and then glances back to Shireen guiltily and begins with some hesitation,

 

 

   “That Norrey...”

 

 

   “Yes, the younger Norrey, the only currently in residence here,” Shireen prompts, drawing it out slowly to show Gilly that stalling will not work, and Gilly looks even more discomfited and finally sags dramatically and rolls her shoulders forwards to slump towards Shireen and expel,

 

 

   “Do you remember when lady Alys married Sigorn of Thenn?”

 

 

   “Yes, of course,” Shireen blinks, not expecting what appears to be a drastic change in topic, but Gilly grimaces and goes on,

 

 

   “Well, after that, what with how that led to all that good coming to the Thenns, there was a lot of ambition floating around, and your Ser Norrey wasn't the only one who... got ideas above their station, let's just say.”

 

 

   By her tone Gilly clearly means this to imply something, but Shireen has been at politics since she woke up before dawning and she is thoroughly weary of it by now, so she screws up her face and demands,

 

 

   “Gilly, what _are_ you talking about? I don't understand!”

 

 

   “Some of the other lords,” Gilly says leadingly, looking quite harried and displeased,

 

 

   “Thought that was a good way to do it, like the Magnar of Thenn - get a highborn wife and have that be an easy way to rising closer to the top, that is - and I don't know whether it was his own idea or the old Norrey's, but young _Ser_ Norrey was overheard mentioning how he thought that'd be the way to do it for himself, too.”

 

 

   “All men are ambitious, Gilly, I don't see why that would lead you to dislike him so much in particular,” Shireen comments, frowning hard, reasoning,

 

 

   “Lady Alys' marriage was arranged with her consent, to protect her and her interests, everyone knows that, and besides, there weren't any other highborn ladies about at the time for any of the other lords to fix their ambitions upon, so surely it can't have seemed such a clever thing as all that, with no opportunities.”

 

 

   “No, well, you wouldn't think it,” Gilly says crossly, past irritations rearing their head again quite obviously,

 

 

   “But you'd be wrong, and you ought to remember when-abouts this was. Besides lady Alys, there _were_ two other highborn ladies about at the time.”

 

 

   “Do you mean Val?” Shireen asks with surprise, for typically Gilly will go to great lengths not to speak of the woman unless it be in direct connection with her death for the crime of attempting to bring about Shireen's own murder, and Gilly nods and prompts,

 

 

   “Yes, _and..?_ ”

 

 

   “Well, there weren't any others,” Shireen mumbles, perturbed, for she is sure there were not, and even Val could only be considered 'highborn' in the loosest of terms, and Gilly sighs in what is more an exasperated groan and gives Shireen a sad look, nudging her arm gently and insisting,

 

 

   “ _You_ , my lady! You forget yourself!”

 

 

   “Me!” Shireen exclaims, stunned enough to laugh in disbelief,

 

 

   “But I was only - ”

 

 

   “Old enough to be wed - certainly old enough to be promised,” Gilly says seriously, and Shireen's frown returns.

 

 

   “And the King's daughter,” she points out, and Gilly nods and replies with wide and solemn eyes,

 

 

   “Yes, which is what I meant by _'ideas above their station'_.”

 

 

   “But that's absurd,” Shireen scoffs,

 

 

   “I refuse to believe any of them could be daft enough to think my father would have considered promising me to one of them at any price, let alone that any of them would seriously consider offering, no matter what they could have hoped to gain by such an alliance! It's nonsense!”

 

 

   “To your way of thinking, yes, and I see it same as you,” Gilly acknowledges,

 

 

   “But those were desperate times, and there was enough popular opinion that the King would be glad to secure _any_ match for you as long as it came from a noble family already sworn to him to keep the talk going.”

 

 

   “And you're saying Ser Norrey talked of it?” Shireen asks with a raised eyebrow and clear disdain in her voice for such an idea,

 

 

   “That is why you dislike him? You heard him speaking of a completely ridiculous plan to offer for me and thus secure the King's good will?”

 

 

   “No, my lady, I am saying that lady Ygritte heard him talking to some of the other northern lads of how it seemed an easy enough thing to get one over on the other houses by marrying a highborn, and that he'd take as high as he could get,” Gilly tells her severely, and Shireen laughs, but it soon tapers off into nothing as Gilly continues to watch her with an unsmiling and hard expression.

 

 

   “What do you... do you really mean to tell me that Ser Norrey honestly spoke at the time of offering for me in hopes that would put him at an advantage to the other lords?” Shireen demands, unwilling to believe such an utterly ludicrous and disturbing thing, and Gilly nods, silent and sombre.

 

 

   “Yes, but not just that,” she says honestly, clearly disgusted with the whole thing, and deeply contemptuous,

 

 

   “Not _just_ you. He was one of the ones who was so keen on that awful bitch as well - you'll recall well how none of them could leave her alone, as if she'd have lowered herself to any of them except so far as to make them do her bidding.”

 

 

   “So you don't like him... because what happened with the Thenns gave him the idea to try for me while at the same time casting his net so far as Val to include every possible unmarried highborn available?” Shireen asks, perturbed and wanting complete clarification, and Gilly's mouth twists in annoyance and she shakes her head, fairly reeking of judgment.

 

 

   “Oh no, my lady, worse than that - he was one of the ones who liked the look of _her_ long before what happened with lady Alys, and then after that it only got worse because he and a few others seemed to realise that was a quick enough way to climb the ladder, and I disliked him for that, but what I won't ever forgive is lady Ygritte finding him loitering by the King's Tower after hearing all his talk about casting the widest net he could and all that rot, and having to warn him off you,” she says candidly, sniffing as if the very idea is like having fresh refuse waved under her nose, and Shireen stares at her in utter shock.

 

 

   “She what? You _what?_ ” she asks, fairly choking on it, goggling at Gilly who sniffs again and squares her shoulders.

 

 

   “She had to - told him she'd have his balls if he came near you ever again, told him she'd heard every word spoken between him and the other nasty little shits, knew all about their little plan to see about getting a highborn wife to get to the top of the pile and into the King's good graces, and then she came and told me, so I let him have it, too!” she declares, impassioned and remorseless, and Shireen expels a horrified,

 

 

   “ _Gilly!_ ” but Gilly only tosses her head and insists,

 

 

   “He was planning to trifle with your honour, my lady - string you along until he could be sure of either you _or_ that vile bitch, all for his own gain and his house's, I ask you, so I told him that there'd be none of that and the very first _whisper_ I heard I'd go straight to the King and see what _he'd_ have to say about it, as if his Grace would ever allow such a thing - so I can't and won't forgive _Ser_ Norrey for that even if it wasn't his own idea, and I don't care if that is wrong of me, because it was an ugly thing to even consider, and I know Ygritte feels the same way, and I'm fairly sure she's told the Lord Commander all about it so that Norrey knows to watch himself around you - and now you know!”

 

 

   “And now I know,” Shireen echoes, shaken,

 

 

   “I know you've been keeping this from me for years is what I know! Why did you never tell me? You or Ygritte, you could have just _told_ me!”

 

 

   “We didn't want to upset you and burden you with it,” Gilly cries unhappily,

 

 

   “We agreed it'd be best if we just kept an eye out and told you if there was any more to it, and then of course there wasn't because that awful bitch got what was coming to her and that put an end to all that nonsense anyhow, and so there never seemed any need to do any more about it!”

 

 

   “So the two of you just kept it to yourselves all this time?” Shireen demands, thoroughly dismayed, both at this fresh knowledge of someone whom she had thought quite well of and that Gilly and Ygritte would withhold something like this from her for so long,

 

 

   “Is there anything else like that, anything else you've decided between you it's best I not know about? Any other unsuitable suitors you've warned off, or plots you've uncovered and dealt with that revolve around me? Any other snakes I've harboured at my bosom without knowing the truth of it because I'm too fragile to be told it?”

 

 

   “We knew you'd be upset,” Gilly implores,

 

 

   “Please don't be angry with us, we were trying to protect you, and then with everything else it never came up again and so we didn't think it was worth dredging up and bothering you with - please forgive us, my lady, we were only trying to do what was best for you!”

 

 

   “What is best for me has always been knowing the truth of what goes on around me so that I am equipped to respond to it!” Shireen snaps, too overwhelmed to restrain her tone,

 

 

   “So tell me, is there anything else like that? Anything else you've kept from me _for my own good?_ ”

 

 

   “No, no my lady, I swear, nothing I know of, nothing at all, it was only ever this one stupid thing, and I am so sorry we did it now, I am so sorry we never thought to tell you, but I promise there is nothing else, and I am so, so sorry,” Gilly says, eyes large with teary entreaties, and Shireen rubs at her face with both hands angrily for a moment and then sighs violently and peers out at Gilly from between two fingers, challenging,

 

 

   “Do you swear you will never do anything like this again? And that you will always only ever tell me the truth, even if you think it might upset or hurt me?”

 

 

   “ _Yes_ \- yes, I swear, I absolutely swear it, I am so sorry my lady - ”

 

 

   “Then you're forgiven, and when Ygritte returns we will take it up with her again and put it to rest forever, but I tell you now if this ever happens again I will be furious, do you understand? I _cannot_ have my closest friends keeping things from me which pertain to me personally, I _cannot_ , Gilly!” Shireen cuts across firmly, having removed her hands from her face and gazing at Gilly with a stern and austere expression, not a little angry, and Gilly nods frantically, quickly swiping away her tears, and promising,

 

 

   “I understand - I do, and I am so sorry, it will never happen again!”

 

 

   “See that it doesn't,” Shireen says curtly, and then groans and puts her hands over her face again, taking them away after a second and glaring sideways at Gilly, muttering with irritation,

 

 

   “I cannot _believe_ how closely this resembles my earlier conversation with Ser Norrey. The whole thing is ghastly!”

 

 

   “I'm _so_ sorry,” Gilly sniffles again, clearly miserable, and Shireen sighs once more, completely fed up, and reaches to pat Gilly's hand.

 

 

   “I'm not disparaging your intentions - or even your actions, really - I just... you need to tell me things. Particularly when they are about me,” she says wearily,

 

 

   “I need to know what's going on. I've only just had a long talk with Jon Snow all about how I need to guard myself more carefully - how am I to do that when I've no idea what I might need to guard myself against? If you'd told me about Norrey then, I'd never have suggested my father knight him, he wouldn't have deserved it then if he could scheme like that! It's this sort of thing, Gilly... I can't be left in the dark seemingly for my own protection, it might be the death of me in the end.”

 

 

   “I know that now, and I'll never, ever do it again,” Gilly swears anew, and Shireen nods, feeling achingly tired of a sudden, staring down into her porridge bowl and using her free hand to curve around the tea Gilly so kindly gave her earlier because she hadn't had a thing for hours upon hours of bloody useless arguing, and suddenly her affection for Gilly is more overwhelming even than the fatigue and the residual anger, and she lets herself sag sideways and lean into Gilly who immediately props her up in a slightly awkward embrace, and Shireen breathes deeply and then mumbles,

 

 

   “I am so tired, Gilly. Tired of all the secrets and the intrigue, so, so tired...” into Gilly's apron, and Gilly holds her closely and kisses the top of her head and whispers fierce and loving,

 

 

   “I know my lady, and I swear I'll never give you reason to feel it for the sake of something I did or didn't do ever again. I'll not add to your burdens or think I know better than you what you should know. It was a mistake and I shan't repeat it as long as I live.”

 

 

   Shireen nods wearily, and then leans away a little, and Gilly releases her, and suggests in the nurturing tones Shireen is so used to from her,

 

 

   “Why don't you finish this and then get some air in your lungs? Cooped up in that bloody hall all day, it's not healthy - go out and inspect the troops, have a look at the new camps, get some blood to those legs and some wind through your hair? You'll feel better. You might even run into the boys, they've hared off somewhere to look for giants.”

 

 

   She's put the spoon back in Shireen's hand and Shireen doesn't notice that she's eating without even thinking about it until Gilly pauses for a response and Shireen has to swallow and then take a sip of tea before she can reply with a worn-out,

 

 

   “That might help... I know I've been so busy of late I've barely seen the boys,” and Gilly's hand is there at once smoothing over Shireen's hair and her voice soothing her and reassuring her that,

 

 

   “They understand, my lady - they're excited about it, they're sure it's all part of making you queen and they can hardly wait, I had to explain that it's not proper to be so excited about that because it normally means the King's not here anymore!”

 

 

   It brings a smile to Shireen's face, the idea of Gilly having to discourage the boys from yearning for Shireen to succeed Stannis to the throne so soon, and she finds herself clearing her bowl and finishing her tea quickly, and then she looks up at Gilly and says,

 

 

   “Thank you, for everything, Gilly - and all this Norrey business, it's over and done with, alright? We'll talk to Ygritte as well when she returns, but this is an end to it, and I won't bear a grudge, I promise. I trust you never to do it again.”

 

 

   “You're too good, my lady,” Gilly tells her with smiling eyes but tremulous tones, leaning down to place a kiss on Shireen's forehead, and then Shireen rises and gives her a proper hug, drawing back and announcing,

 

 

   “I try - I'll take that walk,” and Gilly produces her cloak in an instant and drapes it over Shireen with care, and then smiles at her and tells her with sincere emotion,

 

 

   “Please take care, my lady. If you like I can come with you,” but Shireen shakes her head and smiles back.

 

 

   “There's no need, truly - I'll be perfectly alright,” she insists, and Gilly clasps her hands in farewell and then Shireen starts for the yard.

 

 

   It is either true that she is less popular than usual or what the Lord Commander said earlier is simply getting to her, for she thinks she encounters more repulsed looks and flinches than usual, and passes more unhappy mutterings, but she keeps her head up and doesn't allow a trace of her exhaustion to show, unwilling to be brought low by such things, and it is easy to leave the yard and walk to the newly-made camps where the fresh arrivals from the south have had to arrange themselves for lack of room within the castle, closely hugging the outer walls, because there's really hardly any distance to go, but here she is certain that there are more apprehensive stares and even derisive comments as she passes through, though she hails them courteously and makes sure to keep an eye out for any sign that they can be made more comfortable which she might be able to relay to her father to improve their situation and general morale.

 

 

   It doesn't really surprise her though - they haven't known the North as she has yet, are still getting acquainted with the truly harsh conditions, and that is bound to gnaw at anyone's resolve and feelings of loyalty. Still, she could do without the few who notice her and practically spit her name like a curse.

 

 

   She reaches the edge of their camp, and already feels that the wind and fresh air are doing her some good, that for all the frigid cold the feeling is returned properly to her legs, the temperature only making her feel more alive, and she is not really so surprised that she must walk a fair distance more to where the edge of what must be the Skagosi camp begins, for if the southerners can barely stand the sight of their princess at the moment she can only imagine their attitudes towards despised and much-feared northern 'savages', but she is surprised that it is here she finds Alester and Aemon, playing with the giant Wun Wun and shrieking with laughter just on the outskirts of the second camp.

 

 

   “Little queen!” Wun Wun bellows, spotting her first from his towering height, and she smiles broadly, waving to him and the children, and calling back,

 

 

   “Hail, ser giant!” in the Common Tongue just as he addressed her, and laughing to see how the boys scramble to hide behind the giant's massive trunk-like legs, imploring him to hide them, and he picks them up and tucks one under each arm, all but completely obscuring them from sight if only the tops of their heads and their giggles didn't make them so easy to pick out, little bright spots of joy in a joyless day, and as she draws nearer to them, Wun Wun obligingly sinks to his knees, just as much in deference to her as to make it easier on her neck so she won't have to crane it upwards to speak to him properly, and he rumbles at her in what she knows is his softest tone,

 

 

   “Hail little queen,” speaking to her now in the Old Tongue, of which she knows something after years of concentrated study, insistent that she be able to speak with all citizens of the realm in their own preferred language to treat with them more equally, and she smiles, for she now knows that 'little queen' is as close as this tongue can come to calling her 'princess', and yet from Wun Wun it is an endearing picture of what she is to him.

 

 

   “Hail, my friend,” she says with warmth and fondness, looking up into his vast and smiling face,

 

 

   “Have you seen my children? My two naughty boys - their mother wants them!”

 

 

   The giggles intensify from under the giant's arms, and Shireen shares a grin with Wun Wun, who nods slowly and sagely, but says because this is an old game and the boys are fluent in the Old Tongue and understand everything perfectly which is why they can barely contain themselves,

 

 

   “No boys - no children for a little queen!”

 

 

   “Oh no? But I hear them,” Shireen plays along, and Wun Wun chuckles with a sound like falling rubble, and she goes on,

 

 

   “Are you sure you have not seen my children? Two little boys?”

 

 

   “No little boys, little queen,” Wun Wun tells her with exaggerated mournfulness, and Shireen sighs dramatically and exclaims,

 

 

   “Oh no! Then who shall I read stories to? Who will eat the rabbit pie their mother has made for them? Who will walk with me back through the snow? Must I go alone?”

 

 

   “No!” comes first one shriek and then the other,

 

 

   “No - we will! Mother, we will! Here we are!”

 

 

   Wun Wun starts with great drama and pretends to find them under his arms, raising them up to let the boys tumble into the snow amid peals of laughter, and then shaking himself off as though he is afraid to find more, and Shireen laughs along with them all, although Wun Wun's mirth almost drowns out everything else, and the boys roll around in the snow and then scramble to their feet to rush at her and embrace her heartily, crying for her first attentions, and she kneels to gather them to her and kiss and hug them, still laughing.

 

 

   “There you are my darlings! Safe and sound - how I missed you! Will you come back with me?” she asks them, and they nod and laugh and then call out,

 

 

   “Can Wun Wun come too? Please Mother?”

 

 

   “Wun Wun will you come with us?”

 

 

   The giant leans forward on his knees and then his elbows and blinks at them, large face full of good humour, and he grins wide to display all his massive teeth, and Shireen smiles back and echoes the invitation,

 

 

   “You are very welcome to come with us, my friend - we will feed you, too!” and he laughs enough to almost bowl them over and then sits back on his heels and looks down at them, replying,

 

 

   “I go! For food, for little queen!” and the children cheer and then Aemon seizes on the idea,

 

 

   “Will you carry us back? Please?” immediately joined by his brother who turns large, inspired eyes on their immense friend and asks,

 

 

   “Mother too? Please Wun Wun?” and Shireen is quick to say,

 

 

   “Boys, he doesn't have to - Wun Wun if you do not want to carry us, you do not have to!” but the giant looks towards the tree line and then back to the children, a frown like a trench in the earth on his brow, and he booms,

 

 

   “Will take - back to walls. Safe,” and reaches for the boys who rush to climb up his arm and arrange themselves on his shoulders, and then unexpectedly, Wun Wun reaches his other hand out to Shireen and prompts,

 

 

   “Come, little queen,” and Shireen brushes off her skirts and frowns up at him.

 

 

   “I can walk, my friend, it is no trouble,” she insists, but Wun Wun looks to the trees again and then to her, and there is a note of worry in his voice when he repeats,

 

 

   “Safe,” and she walks towards him and takes a seat in his hand, easily large enough, and he carefully moves his arm towards his chest to cradle her there and rises to his full height, then looks down at her again and adds, as softly as he is able,

 

 

   “Wolves,” and Shireen understands, though the children are oblivious in their delight at being allowed to ride back to the castle on a giant's shoulder, and she calls to him her thanks which he acknowledges with a low purr in his chest which almost rattles her ribcage where she sits carefully held like upon a strange throne, moving through the landscape at her unique new vantage point, and as they leave it, she catches a glimpse of the Skagosi camp she did not truly enter, and she finds herself murmuring to herself in delayed response.

 

 

   “Yes... wolves...”

 

 

   If she still prayed, she might be inspired to pray to live long enough to see the coming of wolves.

 

 

   -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone, you are all very welcome to participate in the Rickeen Shipweek 2016, kindly arranged by the gracious Frozensnares - I shall be participating, and hope to see you all there in some shape or form!
> 
>  [Shipweek Details Here!](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/post/146784261466/rickeen-shipweek-2016)
> 
> -
> 
>  
> 
> For reasons related to my health, in future until I am fully recovered, no further updates will be published unless the most recently posted chapters of my works receive three comments minimum, as it transpires that it apparently does not do the slowly healing 3rd degree burn on my dominant hand any favours that I get overly excited and write and publish upwards of 20,000 words of fic in under a week, so I am creating this rule in hopes it will give me incentive to make myself take breaks so I don't aggravate my injury.
> 
> I sincerely hope that you will all be understanding of my need to do this - I am terrible at self-care at the best of times and if I don't make a few rules for it I will neglect my healing process entirely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://valkyrien.tumblr.com/post/148228851744/keep-yourself-safe-my-lord)

 

 

 

   It is the fourth day after the first council, the deciding council, and Shireen is by now sick of councils as a whole.

 

 

   Ser Tarly's assessments of that day and predictions based thereupon have held true, owing in no small part to the industriousness of their new allies, and it has been four days now since in which Shireen has sat another four such councils at _least_ \- which hardly dares thinking about and has sorely tested her patience and resolve - subject to any news that has arrived to be considered.

 

 

   Four days of bickering and debating and bad tidings from dawning until there has been no point prolonging it further, and then Shireen has been sent outside by Gilly, who has arrived at the decision that if all the, to her mind, _thoroughly_ useless men-folk _will_ insist on their unnecessarily drawn-out meetings that seem more an opportunity to make their complaints heard than to hear actual news of how all things progress and what's to be done or needs doing, then Shireen's health and sanity must be guarded through the judicious application of fresh air and exercise daily with a nice walk -

 

 

   - even if only because when Shireen is outside, she is nowhere near all the contentious lordlings and their view of her as the easiest way to the King's ear with all their most irritating gripes, as they do not seem to want to leave the castle if they can avoid it.

 

 

   Gilly has said nothing of Shireen's new habit of walking to the Skagosi camp and back, for lack of any better route suggesting itself and motivated in no small part by a continued curiosity as to the people themselves, although Shireen takes care not to be underfoot there and so keeps to the outskirts, as in order to meet Sam's estimated time they are almost to a one hard at work on the dragonglass. Shireen knows Gilly approves of her choices, however, by the way she scoffs heartily at the slightest suggestion anyone cares to make that the princess might be better served by keeping to the castle like the other southerners prefer to.

 

 

   “A fine lot they are,” Shireen has heard Gilly huff more than once,

 

 

   “Too afraid to go beyond _these_ walls even, if they can help it - much good they'll be when comes time to go beyond the Wall and fight!”

 

 

   Samwell has also told Shireen in confidence that his esteemed wife has made pointed enquiries of the Lord Commander to ascertain to what extent it is safe for Shireen to go there unaccompanied, and has apparently been satisfied that whatever tales may abound of them, the Skagosi do not make a habit of interfering with the chosen path of any woman - as evidenced by how many of their own number are in fact women, and thus possibly owing to their intimate experiences of women being only too capable of protecting themselves.

 

 

   Further, it would seem that they have informed Jon Snow himself that although they will none of them bend the knee to any southern _king_ , the interests of the queen-to-be are now theirs in so far as she has made their interests her own.

 

 

   Shireen has diplomatically chosen to refrain from gloating over this to anyone - although she thinks Gilly was just pleased to have the absolute assurance of the Lord Commander who gave her his word on it - even though it does neatly prove Shireen's particular point regarding her decision not to be silent being ultimately the only right choice she could have made.

 

 

   She has also chosen to refrain from remarking upon her new knowledge of this event to Gilly directly, given that they have so recently fallen out over the issue of Gilly keeping things relevant to Shireen secret, but she will admit to herself that when Sam told her about Gilly promising Jon Snow a _bitter_ retribution if he was not certain beyond _any_ shadow of doubt that Shireen would be no more likely to come to harm in that camp than she would any other if she should include it on her walks, Shireen did seek Gilly out and subject her to a particularly warm embrace with no further explanation given.

 

 

   She does much the same now, freshly come from yet another dawn council on this the fourth day of such, although this afternoon's embrace is motivated by her deep-seated irritation and weariness with all that's to come and how impractical it seems everyone is set on being about everything, so when she goes straight to Gilly in the kitchens and falls about her neck, disregarding Gilly's insistence that Gilly's apron is not clean and will stain Shireen's dress, Shireen only sighs and mutters into Gilly's hair,

 

 

   “Let it stain - the bloody thing's dark as it is, whatever you're covered in can do its worst,” and Gilly makes a sympathetic sound and pats Shireen's back gingerly, letting Shireen withdraw and sink onto the bench by the table Gilly is using while Gilly scrubs her hands quickly and divests herself of her apron, and then goes to draw Shireen into a closer and more participatory hug.

 

 

   “Was it very bad again, my lady? Sam said there'd be difficult things spoken of today, what with all the arms nearly done and sent off where they're needed,” Gilly murmurs soothingly, and Shireen sighs again and rests her head on Gilly's shoulder.

 

 

   “I think difficult's the right word for it,” she agrees, feeling quite exhausted as she has come to realise she always does as the result of having to restrain the greater part of her fury when dealing with querulous lords - boding ill for them, she thinks wryly, if she's ever to be their queen - and she pulls back and looks at Gilly earnestly and tells her,

 

 

   “Sam's assessments were exactly right, we're just about set, almost every keep's been properly stocked, and it's just as well because the enemy is at our door now, Gilly. The first of our people here are going out to meet them tomorrow - if it hadn't been for Sam's cleverness we wouldn't have been able to do much other than wait until they came close enough to the Wall that we could fire a few hastily-made arrows at them, but as it is it's been decided we have to beat them back the way the Sentinel Stand forces managed three days ago when the Others broke through the tree-line there.”

 

 

   Gilly's face is sympathy and distaste all over when she remarks,

 

 

   “I can't imagine your lords like that idea much. Was it the King's decision?”

 

 

   “Yes,” Shireen says with a weary nod but a slight smile for how her father proclaimed what their strategy must be, at last simply disregarding the squalling complaints it met with,

 

 

   “Sentinel Stand were taken unawares by how fast the Others broke through - there is less clear ground between the Wall and the wood there - but they fought admirably and the Others have retreated from there for now. The King won't see the same occur here. We are ready, so we will meet them before they can come too close for comfort or amass too great a force here for the fight to remain mostly on our own terms.”

 

 

   “Sounds right enough to me, though I'm sure I don't know how to fight a war,” Gilly replies calmly,

 

 

   “Not like the King does. If he thinks this is the best way to give our side a good start of it, I trust his judgment.”

 

 

   “We have to break their line before it can grow any stronger and allow them to press forward and try to break ours,” Shireen says firmly, her father's words but the whole force of her own conviction and belief in them behind it,

 

 

   “It's the only way to give us the advantage. We cannot afford to just sit here and wait and let _them_ dictate our eventual course of action. We can't put our faith too completely in the Wall and think sitting on it and taking them on a few volleys at a time will be enough - the best thing would be if we could keep them from the Wall altogether.”

 

 

   “Sensible,” Gilly nods, a hardness about her mouth that Shireen knows is determined steadfastness,

 

 

   “How many are going out? Surely not everyone still here?”

 

 

   “That is what today's council sought to determine,” Shireen huffs, fed up with the mere thought of the deliberations that have taken up all the day so far, of how much dissatisfaction met her father's decision after the reports came through from the other keeps, the numbers and details from Sentinel Stand which informed Stannis' final strategic choices,

 

 

   “Every lord whose men are still here trying to wriggle out of being sent, trying to argue why _their_ people should be kept back, why we should just sit passively here in our castles and let the Others close enough to start _climbing_ the bloody Wall if they like!”

 

 

   Gilly's hand clasps hers soothingly, a silent offer of support and strength, and Shireen looks down at it and smiles, holds it tightly and nods at the question unspoken between them, raises her head again to answer the question Gilly did voice.

 

 

   “In the end we settled on an even number of northmen, southerners, and wildlings, although I didn't think it was right considering we've many more southerners still here in the camp than we have wildlings or northerners left after we strengthened some of the other garrisons that needed it just before Davos brought the newcomers,” Shireen says heavily, the unfairness weighing on her still, the bitterness of politics interfering with true duty and a truly just decision as she sees it,

 

 

   “I spoke against that but I was overruled. Father feels we can keep the newly-come southerners in reserve until we either need them here or one of the other keeps develops a dire need of reinforcement. I only see wisdom in that because it will give them more time to grow accustomed to the cold, but my suggestion that fighting would at least warm their bones was not found sufficiently compelling or amusing to win my case,” and here she smiles wryly at Gilly, just short of bitter, and then adds,

 

 

   “The Lord Commander also pledged on behalf of the Skagosi - as many of them are to go as of the others, so all factions are to be represented. All told, we are sending out one thousand strong tomorrow. Father hopes, based on the reports, that it will be enough to break the Others' lines as have accumulated here, and keep them back.”

 

 

   “And what do _you_ think, my lady?” Gilly asks, grave and a little hesitant, though Shireen is not sure whether she is seeking the reassurance of Shireen's full agreement with this plan, or fears that Shireen may be less than optimistic and wishes to know if reassurance is needed going the other way, but Shireen can only be honest whatever the case may be.

 

 

   “I do not believe this will be enough to rout them. I do not believe their lines will be so easily broken. I believe that tomorrow will only be a testing of the waters, and that my father means it as such,” she says sincerely, holding Gilly's gaze,

 

 

   “We have no real way of knowing how many are gathered beyond the trees - we have scouted, of course, but nothing is sure, and although Sentinel Stand was a victory, I cannot forget that it was also an ambush and how quickly and suddenly so many Others advanced on the Wall there, so many more than we thought were waiting in that area to do so.”

 

 

   She pauses then, but Gilly's expression is serene and attentive, and finally Shireen confesses,

 

 

   “If I had _my_ way, we would not be sending a force here tomorrow to draw the Others out and meet the threat as it stands, we would be sending one ten times what is to go, and ordering all the other keeps to do the same, to burn back the wood if possible and expose the Others where they lurk, widening the gap between where they can gather unseen and where we must defend at the last.”

 

 

   “You told the King that?” Gilly asks with slow seriousness, and Shireen nods.

 

 

   “I did,” she replies, keeping her tone neutral but unable to meet Gilly's eyes for a moment because she will admit only to herself that it was mainly fear that had her appealing to her father - for she did so privately before the council this morning, not wanting to air this before any others, knowing they would laugh her into silence or else hold it as evidence that she cannot be trusted to judge soundly - fear that they will be sending a mere thousand tomorrow in a bid to make the Others show their hand, and that they will all be killed for it,

 

 

   “And I understand my father's reasoning. That does not mean I agree with it entirely.”

 

 

   “You want to fight harder than the King feels ready to,” Gilly surmises, frowning at Shireen,

 

 

   “That's not a bad thing, surely?”

 

 

   “No, not a bad thing,” Shireen allows, biting back the shame,

 

 

   “Not a bad thing, and I agree with the decision as far as it goes. It is... more the _reasoning_ that sits ill with me. We could send five times the number decided tomorrow, if we looked only to our latest reports and thought only to break through those reserves the enemy has gathered here, before they can gather more and attack us in much the same way they attacked at Sentinel Stand. We could, and it would _assure_ us of a victory, even if only temporary. It would be many more than our reports would lead us to believe are needed to beat back those gathered here.”

 

 

   “But that is not what the King has chosen to do,” Gilly says neutrally, and Shireen shakes her head.

 

 

   “It is not. It is not, because the lords do not truly want to fight, Gilly, so my father is not sending all the people we can spare for the first battle that must stand here. My father wants to force the Others to show their hand, without his needing to show his own, while at the same time keeping a tight rein on those of our people who would rather we retreat entirely from the Wall and let the Wall serve alone to protect the North and all the lands below, just as it always has done,” Shireen explains wearily,

 

 

   “And I understand it and see the wisdom in it, and how careful the balance is on both sides of the problem, but if it stood to me and I had no one but myself to answer to... I would march beyond the Wall with all the might we can gather, and I would burn the paths before us, and I would see these Others crushed in as much of one fell swoop as could be accomplished, but I understand that is not as _safe_ as simply holding the line and scouting forward in increments or meeting the threat as it comes, and I understand that the majority of our people could not be expected to take the fight beyond the Wall in the way I would prefer to, and so I defer to the decisions made.”

 

 

   “You've a stronger spirit than all your people have to drive them,” Gilly says fiercely, gripping Shireen's hand hard,

 

 

   “You needn't feel sorry for that!”

 

 

   “I don't,” Shireen assures her quietly, stroking Gilly's knuckles with her thumb,

 

 

   “But a single woman alone cannot fight or win a war, and I know that just as I cannot ask men to fight a war for me in a way I could not or would not myself, as no good leader would, I also cannot force them to fight for me in a way _they_ will not - _we_ are reliant upon _them_ to do the fighting - and so we could never ask our soldiers to take this campaign beyond the Wall in the way I would prefer to if it were my decision alone and I had the power to make it so.”

 

 

   “So the Wall's all that really stands between us and the enemy, but really it's standing between them and us, too, isn't it? I can't think if it wasn't there the King would hesitate to just take the fight to them - it's not his way, that I've seen,” Gilly comments thoughtfully, musing but practically so, and Shireen smiles faintly.

 

 

   “No, holding back is not my father's way except when he has no other choice - wherever he may prefer to _lead_ from - and usually that choice is made for him when his numbers have been inferior, and even then at times he has worked around that and won the day all the same, but _here_ we have reason to believe ours is the greater strength at the moment, and what's stopping us from riding out to meet the threat all at once is that it's all stretched over so much space, which makes concentrated campaigning all but impossible - and the terrain and weather won't allow for it, so here we are, stuck behind the Wall we're meant to defend and forced to let it protect us just as much, which suits our southern lords all too well for my liking,” she outlines with equal parts frustration and exasperation,

 

 

   “The greatest difficulty is that we only _think_ we've the larger numbers. We don't know with _certainty_ \- who knows how many could be out there! For all we know we could be sending out a thousand to drive back what we think is a number that should be easily overcome by that, only for them to be set upon by a force many _times_ that, we've no _real_ knowledge of how fast these Others can travel or how they call reinforcements to them!”

 

 

   Shireen shakes her head crossly and finally states with determined surety,

 

 

   “No - my father's the right of it. We'd only run the risk of being flanked somehow if we went beyond the Wall as I'd want to, there's no way we could ever link our lines with those of the other keeps and advance as one, and against an enemy like this where we'd be advancing into such hostile territory it'd be impossible to do as I'd like to and a retreat would be just as impossible if it came to that. No, I'm sure the King's way is the only and right way. We're sending out as many as ought be enough to meet the current threat. Sending any more is not necessary at this time and we cannot risk a full campaign beyond the Wall - like as not our people would only freeze or starve to death in the end.”

 

 

   The look Gilly gives her is not pitying, rather only a touch too understanding, but her tone is brisk and practical when she says with feeling,

 

 

   “It's all that quibbling and quarrelling you're subjected to day in and day out - it fills your mind with nothing but useless what-ifs and should-wes and you start doubting your own sense before long! No, my lady, we'll trust in the King to know what we're to do, and hope for a world in the future where you can expect your people will follow you into their own hells if you ask them to go with you, and for now we'll send you outside and let the wind have a go of clearing your poor head!”

 

 

   “Tired of strategic debating already, Gilly?” Shireen teases half-heartedly as Gilly rises to fetch Shireen's cloak and bring it to her, and Gilly scoffs and shakes out the cloak with a violent snap, replying dryly,

 

 

   “Tired of the whole bloody nonsense! I don't know how you can stand listening to all those fools and their talk, it's a wonder you don't come back even more tied up in knots than you already are!”

 

 

   Shireen stands and lets Gilly drape her warmly to her heart's content, submitting also to Gilly arranging Shireen's hair so that all the braided length is gathered in the hood, and she smiles at Gilly with weary affection.

 

 

   “There, that'll do,” Gilly proclaims, folding Shireen in a tight hug for a few moments and speaking quietly but passionately in her ear,

 

 

   “Don't doubt your instincts my lady - I'm sure the King knows what he's doing and he'll see us right, but if it comes to it and we need to rely on you instead, I know you'd do at least as fine a job. Just, perhaps differently.”

 

 

   Shireen has no chance to reply, for Gilly draws back then and surreptitiously wipes at her eye, chivvying at Shireen with her free hand and insisting,

 

 

   “Now out you go, my lady, and don't come in until you've some colour back in your face - all that sitting about in that stuffy hall's enough to make anyone feel like starting a good clean fight!”

 

 

   “I'll do my best not to start one while I'm out, but I make no promises,” Shireen says with as much light-heartedness as she can muster, but Gilly only laughs and replies frankly,

 

 

   “I wouldn't accept if you did - I'm sure you'd never start any fight you didn't feel you could finish, but if ever you do, you know where to find me!”

 

 

   “Precisely where I need you to be, as always,” Shireen acknowledges, and Gilly's cheeks bloom although she waves away the praise and insists,

 

 

   “Off you go before you're called to another wretched meeting!” and Shireen laughs and blows her a quick kiss before she goes, seeing Gilly put her apron back on in the moment of Shireen closing the door and seeking outside.

 

 

   Everything is so cluttered with activity that she is hardly noticed in the yard beyond a few unavoidable courtesies paid when she is nearly trampled by those making preparations, but she spots Sam in the commotion, overseeing the crating of what must be the last of the finished dragonglass weaponry, likely for storing so that it will be ready when it is needed either here or elsewhere, for allowances have been made for extra production so that they are unlikely to suddenly find themselves in need again soon anywhere across the Wall, and she smiles although he is clearly too busy to notice her in return, and then passes through the open gate and makes her way towards the freshly-designated reserve camp of southern newcomers.

 

 

   They also pay her little heed, used to her passing through by now and somewhat warmed to the idea of her after she suggested to her father, following her first informal inspection of them and how they had initially set up camp, that they be advised by the wildlings and northerners on how to improve things so as to deal more efficiently with the problems presented by the harsh climate that they will be some time in getting used to.

 

 

   Still, they are not as courteous as they ought to be - she feels the resentment of them, how obviously they do not wish to be here serving either her or their sworn King, hears the occasional unfavourable comment or even insult, although she does not allow that to affect her visibly - and she will admit privately that she resents them also that for the moment they are practically idle compared to all the rest of the people along the Wall, for they have no true task before them as yet other than to remain at the ready in case they are called upon or must be sent elsewhere to support existing garrisons.

 

 

   She tries to remain charitable in her thoughts for that alone, though, seeing as she does that effort is at least being made to keep things orderly and that overall they do appear to be ready enough for the eventuality of being needed as a reserve force, understanding from long experience that any army should ideally be well-rested before a battle. Their comparative lack of industry does offend her eye, however, and she does not stop within their camp, or linger at all, keeping her steps brisk and her head high and her destination fixed in her mind.

 

 

   She had thought that today, assured as she might be that at least the business of manufacturing weaponry is done with for the time being, she would venture beyond the very edge of the Skagosi camp. Not to inspect or interfere, but because although she has thus far maintained a distance out of respect for the task they have undertaken and hasn't wished to be disruptive to that, she has also felt it to be her duty to show by her presence that theirs is appreciated, particularly when so many of those whom they have come to aid have made it clear they are not welcome, and since the Lord Commander has promised Gilly solemnly on their behalf that Shireen will not be endangered by it if she does pay their camp a proper visit and she feels reasonably assured that she will not be in the way if she does so now, she has thought since waking that today was to be the day for it.

 

 

   She can't deny that perhaps a certain apprehension has also held her back thus far, her concern that by now they'll have learnt all there is to learn of the hazards of greyscale - if ignorance in that respect is why they had no reaction to her at first meeting - and so also learnt to hate the sight of her by extension, has been warring with her longing to go all the same in case perhaps they in truth simply do not care, for whatever reason, and she can feel again what it is to not be judged by it.

 

 

   What she and Gilly spoke of the day of their arrival continues to weigh upon her, and although the desire to sate her own curiosity as to these strange strangers, to know for herself what manner of folk they may be, has been strong, Jon Snow's assurance that she will be safe if she actually enters their camp is not the same as a promise that she will not be stared at, or commented upon, and that is what Shireen truly fears.

 

 

   Just as she told Gilly - she has known now what it is like to be treated no differently than any other person.

 

 

   To find now that it has been lost to her forever will be immeasurably painful, beyond the scrutiny or insults themselves, and so she steels herself to the thought that it is likely to be so, that it is likely she is walking into just another place where she will be thought less of for the marks on her face, and with every step she hardens her heart to that thought and expects nothing else even for a moment, however tantalising it is to do so, for she is come to do her duty and show them that whatever anyone may say, their aid is appreciated and that their choice to participate in tomorrow's battle is also deeply felt and marked.

 

 

   That even if no one else will, the Princess considers their contribution worthy and equal to that of other actors in this at the least.

 

 

   With all this in her thoughts and keeping her back rigidly straight and her eyes forward, Shireen draws as near to the Skagosi camp as she has ever been, feeling suddenly acutely that she is alone and that it seems in fact quite far removed from both the castle and the southerners' own encampment, and for a moment she considers turning back as she has done all the other days she has walked out.

 

 

   She has only ever come close enough to hear them speaking with raised voices - now she is near enough to smell cooking fires and discern individuals moving between tents and other shelters, near enough to see more of them than she did even when they arrived, for since then they have largely kept to themselves.

 

 

   Sam has told her that it is true they do not care for the castles and keeps of others, or other people at all, but Shireen has witnessed herself that they have not even wanted to bring the obsidian weapons they have completed to the castle themselves - instead, Jon Snow has gone out at each day's closing to fetch what has been made and bring more raw materials to be converted, accompanied by men of the Watch, or wildlings.

 

 

   Even those whom Sam has told her are masters at working the dragonglass, and who consented to teach some of the wildlings better of it to hasten overall production and ensure the highest possible quality despite working within a time constraint, insisted the wildlings come out here to meet them, rather than meeting at the keep or other, more neutral ground.

 

 

   They do not mix overmuch with _any_ others, just as Sam foretold they would not when they arrived, and indeed they make no secret of their contempt for all those they deem southron, which is everyone but themselves, it seems, nor do they seem to care that it goes both ways, which comforts Shireen only slightly when the continued prejudice of the northerners or her own people irks her still, but even so it appears to her that it is yet unfair, for the prejudice they are subjected to has proven this far to have little if any basis in reality and their own contempt for those not their own appears to be rooted in that fact rather than any myths they may harbour regarding anyone more southerly than themselves.

 

 

   Thinking on it only makes her feel yet more self-conscious about simply marching into the space they have claimed as their own, but she knows now that she is too close to veer away, and while she is here to do her duty at the very least and show her face - whatever they may think of it - she is also most of all conscious that she must not appear cowardly or weak of purpose, for she is neither of those things and her pride won't allow her to act in any way that might indicate otherwise.

 

 

   With all that in mind and with all the dignity she can muster without allowing herself any undue hauteur, she steps across the invisible boundary and into their camp and sets herself a random but straightforward course not unlike the one she takes through the southern camp when she walks there.

 

 

   At first she could readily believe that she has not been noticed at all, certainly she is not met with the immediately hateful reaction she had all but convinced herself she would receive here, but only a few moments pass before she must believe her own observation that in fact still - quite unbelievably! - the Skagosi do not seem to care a whit for her sudden appearance among them, or her appearance at all.

 

 

   They none of them spare her greyscale anything more than a cursory glance, and she is overwhelmed anew not least because that is still more than can be said for some of the men in her father's own army who have served him a good long while, to say nothing of the new arrivals she has only just passed by, and even just the novelty of not being commented upon is almost a shock, not least because she was so prepared for the absolute worst.

 

 

   She could almost think they had been warned not to by someone prior to coming here, but she knows that is not possible and in any case doubts any one person exists who would both care enough for her comfort to do such a thing or be respected enough among them to successfully give such an order or warning, but as it stands she is inclined to believe that she is either largely insignificant to them by dint of being a southern Princess, or that they happen to know how northerners remain as greatly afraid of such disease as it is possible to be and so have chosen as a whole to feign total indifference to it out of pure spite.

 

 

   It being both an amusing idea and one that Shireen could certainly understand if it turns out to be true, she thinks she'd quite like to find someone to ask about it, but she does not engage anyone in conversation.

 

 

   Instead, she simply walks, slowing her pace and enjoying the freedom, the delight of hearing no snide asides and no unkindness's and feeling no fearful or hateful eyes upon her. She makes an attempt not to saunter or gawk at them as she is used to being gawked at, for fear of giving offence or seeming as though she is come only to look upon them as one would an interesting specimen caught and placed in a cage for study, but all the same she takes in all that she can, listening, and, she thinks, learning.

 

 

   She has not gone far before she comes upon a makeshift ring in the ground where the worst of the snow has been cleared so that a sizeable group can watch some of their own engage in what appears to be a form of weaponless fighting therein, which the majority of the assembled seem to be betting on. She does stop then, to watch, if only because one of the participants is a woman and seems - if Shireen is any judge - to be winning, which although she has met her fair share of female fighters among the free folk remains a joy and an inspiration to her to see, and there is a certain additional element of fascination to seeing a woman besting her male counterparts in something which looks so brutally physical.

 

 

   The woman does win, before long, hauling the last of her opponents to his feet with a good-natured laugh at it, and they seem both in good spirits over their match, just as none of those previously beaten appear to bear any grudge over it but are instead settling their bets and otherwise ribbing one another or calling congratulations at her prowess, and Shireen smiles and thinks to herself that whatever else may be true of these people they are at least not barbaric in one respect - in fact they are less so in her estimation than her own people who would have her be weak and yielding and no more than the property of whatever man is head of her family or is willing to bid for her in a marriage that would be no better than a bartering act.

 

 

   Shireen can respect any people who give their women the same consideration they give the men and allow them to choose their own path - or at least not stand in the way of their choices.

 

 

   She turns to continue on her own chosen path but finds that she is being observed intently and at relatively close hand by a young Skagosi whom she almost believes she recognises as being one of those who greeted the Lord Commander when they were all first arrived.

 

 

   Tall and fair he is, as so many of them are, but he is certainly one of the younger she has yet seen for all his stature - his face is not hardened enough yet for her to think he is even quite as old as she, although it is painted, just as so many of them if not the majority choose to paint their faces, the blacks and blues mirroring the hues in the patterns she can see are inked into the skin of his chest where his tunic is unlaced, and she thinks she recognises the head of a wolf and some runes, at least one 'S' if she recalls correctly, although she has neglected her study of them too long in favour of other matters.

 

 

   His hair is pulled back from his face tightly, but she can see that it curls and those curls are only just barely held in check, ruddy and auburn she thinks, were it not streaked with paint too and shot through with lighter strands that do not appear natural. Overall he is very appealing, Shireen thinks quite objectively, but he watches her with intense green eyes in a way not like any of the others, or like any of her father's men, or indeed much like anyone she has ever known to observe her directly, and it unsettles her to be confronted with this when she had only just allowed herself to revel in what had seemed to be all but anonymity and normalcy, things so foreign to her as to be an utter relief and pleasure.

 

 

   “You are the princess,” he says in the Old Tongue, and though she has been taught to speak it, she hasn't the degree of complete fluency she would prefer and she knows that her proficiency has suffered from disuse for again it has been a long while since she has actively studied it or spoken it with anyone but the children and Wun Wun, and very occasionally some of the free folk, as Gilly and Ygritte both make the effort that all the free folk try and make to use the common speech with Shireen, and as they are quicker to the Common than Shireen is to the Old, she has very little time or occasion to practice.

 

 

   The knowledge of it jars her now as she realises she should have worked harder at it, just as it jars her to hear the title she is used to from Wun Wun spoken by any other.

 

 

   To hear herself called 'little queen' by someone she does not know who is nonetheless using the correct mode of address in their language is startling, and more so because although she had noted that as expected the sounds of the Old Tongue are all about her in this camp, they remain foreign to her in this sort of profusion and she has not been taking care to listen closely, so it takes her a moment to gather herself under the unexpected attention and reply in kind.

 

 

   “I am,” she says as neutrally as possible, and he grins wide and bright and yet more unexpectedly and sounds pleased under the harshness imparted by the language to her ear when he declares,

 

 

   “Jon said you spoke it!”

 

 

   She is not surprised to hear him speak so casually of the Lord Commander - the Skagosi might pay respect to the Starks but that is mostly in name alone. In truth they are worse than the free folk in their rejection of the hierarchies of the mainland, those who are not their own, and they bend no knee and swear nothing to anyone and care only for their own titles.

 

 

   Sam has told her this, and she knows it is true also from how her father has commented on it derisively, how it complicates matters because the southerners like at least the _gesture_ of a swearing of fealty and are inclined to use a refusal to give one as a further excuse for mistrust even when the reasons behind it are clear and not inherently untrustworthy.

 

 

   It does not bother her, although she thinks perhaps if she were a finer lady and raised very differently than she has been, she would be scandalised, but she was not and so is not, and is therefore merely interested as to whether they would insist on calling _her_ by name also if they knew it, as they prefer to do with everyone who is not one of their own and has some acknowledged title among them.

 

 

   She thinks this one must have some name of importance because he went with Jon Snow on the day of arrival, but also because despite his relative youth he is outfitted as though he is richer than any of the others she recalls seeing until now, cloth and leather finer than any the rest seem to have, so she could easily suppose him for the son of one of their lords.

 

 

   The designs in his skin are also too many and too finely set and intricately done to her eyes, compared to those adorning anyone else here, not to be a sign of some standing, and she wonders what they truly signify, whether they are earned somehow or collected as a matter of personal taste, or whether they are indicators of status alone.

 

 

   “I do, but not as often as I should,” she admits, and he shrugs a shoulder under the heavy fur flung over it rather carelessly, as if it's not really needed at all despite the bitter cold, and keeps watching her with that intent gaze as he says,

 

 

   “But you understand.”

 

 

  “I do - ” she allows, thinking to herself that at least she does so far,

 

 

   “ - I do not understand why you look at me like that,” she goes on, somehow bold in this camp of so-called savages who yet treat their women as equal enough to fight by their sides and who do not shy from the sight of Shireen's affliction, aggravated by this insistent depth of study in what has proven a place of respite from such glances - except, not _exactly_ such glances as _these_ , she realises as he continues to take her in as if he misses nothing she does and has no wish to.

 

 

   She is half-sure there must be something on her face besides greyscale and what is no doubt a somewhat irritated or at least bemused expression, with how he looks at her.

 

 

   “I am looking at you because you are standing in front of me, and you are beautiful,” he says in the difficult syllables of the Old Tongue, and at first she believes she has misheard and then she fears that she has utterly misunderstood, that her grasp of the language is simply not good enough, rusted from disuse and speaking mainly a good deal of nonsense to small children who are in fact more fluent in it than she, to pick up his true meaning.

 

 

   “I do not think I understand that word,” she risks, not wanting to echo it and be laughed at both for having misunderstood the tongue - for any word in any language can have multiple meanings, she knows, and there was no discernible inflection in its deliverance to guide her beyond a casual resolute sort of calm which indeed lay behind the statement as a whole, giving her nothing to go on - but also for thinking he could have said such a thing of her, for the Skagosi may not stare at her in fear and revulsion, but that does not mean they find her greyscale lovely.

 

 

   “What word?” he asks her, and his gaze feels sharp and her skin thin somehow, and she knows there is no way around it, so she averts her eyes and looks at the ground and does her best not to mumble her reply of,

 

 

   “It - you said it like - ” she sounds out the word in its parts as if she is trying to replicate what he did and then looks back to him, trying not to let herself feel wrong-footed, hoping that she is not as transparent as she feels.

 

 

   He is only watching her unblinkingly, and nods once, slowly.

 

 

   “Yes. Beautiful,” he repeats, putting it back together again as she took it awkwardly apart, and she licks her lips for there was no mistaking the word itself now, and the only explanation she can hit on is that there is some other use of that word which has some other meaning, but that makes her no less thrown, and he tells her, knows somehow,

 

 

   “You do know the word, princess.”

 

 

   “I was not sure,” she insists, but she doesn't think him convinced, and since it seems clear he is not and he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on her as if she is all that is worth seeing in this place, Shireen spreads her hands in capitulation and says simply for her excuse,

 

 

   “I am scarred.”

 

 

   “Yes,” he replies just as simply,

 

 

   “You don't look like a princess.”

 

 

   “What then?” she demands, her temper flaring, for she may not be as fine a lady as perhaps she ought be, but she won't tolerate a direct insult to her in this way, and he answers her with a return of that grin from before.

 

 

   “You look like a siren - a sea witch,” he says, explaining for her benefit the unfamiliar term,

 

 

   “Come from the waves deadly and beautiful, to send us all to die for your song.”

 

 

   It makes her laugh aloud in startled surprise, the lights in his eyes and the sincerity in his face such a contrast to his wolf's grin and how dark his voice is in telling her, and he grins the wider for her laughing.

 

 

   “See - a siren,” he remarks with glee as if proven right,

 

 

   “Can you sing, princess?”

 

 

   “Well enough - and play the harp,” she replies, smiling now for the informality and forthrightness of him, thinking for a moment that perhaps this is what it must be to indeed be not unlike any other person, to be able to stand beneath an open sky and go unnoticed by most and be teased so freely but without a scrap of malice to it.

 

 

   “If we come inside tonight, will you sing?” he asks, and she is still laughing a little when it catches her completely off guard, her smile still in place when she counters,

 

 

   “What?” not comprehending, and then she thinks on what he might mean and asks,

 

 

   “To eat?” understanding the offer in his question for she knows now that the Skagosi do not want to venture within the keep, preferring as they do to remain in their camp, but not quite sure she has grasped when he means, for she dines mainly with her father and Davos and occasionally the Lord Commander on the rare nights she is not alone, entirely forgoing the usual evening meal in the great hall which is only yet another time where she is looked at askance or prevailed upon by those who want her to bring their grievances to the King, and she is sure that he is not asking her to forego or postpone her evening meal entirely, or to disrupt it for others who may have no desire to hear her sing.

 

 

   “Later,” he clarifies,

 

 

   “We're to speak to Jon then. But later, after, in the hall - would you sing, siren?”

 

 

   “What would you like to hear?” she asks, made both a little helpless and a little brave by the request and its openness, though still unsure that she would not be irritating others by doing such a thing so publically, and he shrugs again, his smile easy.

 

 

   “Sirens play men to their deaths - we fight tomorrow, the first of us. First wave. It's what we're to speak of tonight. Will you play us to our deaths?”

 

 

   Shireen does not understand how he can speak of it so casually, how the only depth of feeling in his voice is for the prospect of hearing her play when he does not even know if she is any good, and it both shakes her perception of these people of his, how they must view the concept of dying, and warms her to the core.

 

 

   “I would be happy to play for you,” she says carefully,

 

 

   “But I could come out here to do it? So as not to - ” she doesn't quite have the words she wants, so she settles on,

 

 

   “ - burden others?”

 

 

   “You couldn't,” he tells her quite calmly, although for which part she isn't sure,

 

 

   “It would be a gift. Inside is better - your fingers will freeze here.”

 

 

   She doesn't doubt that they would - she doesn't know how they can stand to unlace their tunics and bare their arms out here let alone sleep on the ground as she has seen one or two doing already - but she is still shy of making a spectacle of herself where everyone might see her, those whose stares are cruel or fearful, only...

 

 

   He has asked so pleasantly.

 

 

   Who knows whether any of them will survive this war, whether those who go out tomorrow will return?

 

 

   “If no one objects,” she relents,

 

 

   “I will ask.”

 

 

   “Ask who? You are princess,” he points out, and she smiles and nods, a little for how funny it still is to hear 'little queen' even when she knows what he _means_ to say, but she must have him understand,

 

 

   “Not here, in the North. And I do not want to be...” again she searches for the right word but can only find the inadequate,

 

 

   “Proud.”

 

 

   She thinks she's been clear enough, but he shakes his head, and he smiles at her rather differently than before.

 

 

   “They should be proud, princess, to see you and to serve,” he says with quiet conviction, and she feels as though she must be missing something.

 

 

   “I thought Skagosi did not serve?” she offers, for that is what she has heard and experienced, their pride being such that they do not, this being the basis of their contempt for all those more southerly than themselves, this tendency towards servitude when they are fiercely independent despite supposedly being bound to the Starks, this being the reason they are only here to provide aid and are not truly sworn - except Jon Snow told Gilly that they have recognised Shireen's support, that they have sworn at least not to oppose her, and her attention catches on that point as he tilts his head as if to concede hers, smile becoming wry as he replies,

 

 

   “No. We choose. To be here, maybe to die here.”

 

 

   He doesn't sound concerned in the slightest and she finds that she is, on his behalf, for them all, and she frowns.

 

 

   “Are you not afraid?” she asks, unable to believe there is not some fear in them at an unknown fate, and he appears to consider it.

 

 

   “Maybe,” he allows,

 

 

   “Not of dying.”

 

 

   “What then?” she can't help asking, a softer echo of her earlier angry demand, and he grins as brightly as ever before.

 

 

   “Dying before I hear you sing,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes.

 

 

   “You don't know if I am any good - maybe that will kill you!” she teases in return, her warning exaggerated for comic effect, and he laughs but when it tapers off he simply looks at her in that intent way again and says quite simply,

 

 

   “If I could choose, I would choose that.”

 

 

   She fights the blush because she knows he is only joking and in any case it is always unbecoming that it never highlights her dead side, and she tries to be arch and jocular when she replies,

 

 

   “Well I will try not to cause it, but your ears may bleed,” and he laughs again but does not give her an answer, for behind her Davos' voice suddenly calls,

 

 

   “Princess! There you are!” and Shireen turns towards it and from the corner of her eye sees the Skagosi slip away into the crowd, and Davos catches up to her swiftly and glances over her shoulder with a squint, asking,

 

 

   “Were you talking to the Stark boy? Strange lad...”

 

 

   “Wha - ” Shireen utters in shock, turning back, but he's gone, and Davos is taking her arm to tuck around his and is beginning to lead her back, so she must content herself with leaning into him and hissing,

 

 

   “Was that really - ?”

 

 

   “Near as I could make out - eyes aren't what they used t' be and all this lot like to paint their faces so there's no telling who's who unless you know 'em well, but I reckon it was,” Davos says easily enough, and perhaps she goggles a little at his words because he secures her arm more tightly and says with slight apology,

 

 

   “Now don't be cross, Princess, I know Snow's told you what there was to tell, and there's no one _here_ what doesn't know 'im, so it's safe as can be as long as we don't go blabbing up at the castle. Your father knows too.”

 

 

   “Yes - yes I know, I just - ” Shireen almost turns her head back the way they came to see if perhaps she can catch a last glimpse of him, for if she was intrigued before she is doubly so now, but of course it's useless and so she contents herself with shaking her head and saying,

 

 

   “I wish I'd known - he didn't say anything!”

 

 

   “Must have said something - two of you were chatting,” Davos says cheerfully, and she pushes at him a little and cries,

 

 

   “Oh, don't tease! You know what I meant!”

 

 

   “I do, my apologies, Princess, forgive an old man who's had nothing to laugh at yet all the long day,” Davos replies with due deference and apology, and she hugs his arm to her and nods.

 

 

   “No apologies ever necessary - today has been a hard day. We were talking of it, too,” she reveals, and Davos glances at her in surprise.

 

 

   “I'm glad the two of you could find something to amuse you in it, then, because I certainly can't - this whole business sticks in my gullet,” he confesses with a huff, and Shireen looks at him sympathetically.

 

 

   “We weren't laughing about that. I don't like what's to happen tomorrow, you know that - I told father as much, I'm sure you know that too,” she replies quietly, and he nods sagely.

 

 

   “Aye, I do, we've spoken on it. I don't disagree with you or your father, Princess - you both make good points and you've both a better understanding of strategy than I have. I'll only say that maybe this isn't what _you'd_ best like because it's not war as you've been used to it,” Davos ventures, all diplomacy but tempered with fatherly wisdom, and Shireen frowns slightly and considers the truth of it as he goes on to clarify,

 

 

   “I mean, you've seen a sight more of war and battles than even I've done, it's been most of your life, shipped to first this campaign then the next what with the King wanting you close and not willing to leave your safety up to anyone else if he can help it - but it's always been the going _out_ to fight. You're not used to having a keep to defend, or a wall, as the case may be. You're not used to the idea of sitting tight somewhere in prime position and letting your enemy advance on you - you've not waged this sort of warfare afore now, and there's no shame in feeling the difference of it and wanting to make the way of it more familiar.”

 

 

   “You're right, Davos,” she replies slowly, wondering how she did not see it before when it is quite obvious that this is the true root of her dislike of the plan that's been settled,

 

 

   “I hadn't thought of it like that, but you're right...”

 

 

   “Aye, I reckon so,” Davos agrees modestly, and he pats her hand fondly, comfortingly, and then says with a deal more gravity,

 

 

   “I've known your father in siege times, and I know he's acting here to see it doesn't come to anything like that. This Wall was built to be a defensible position and it sits right for it, all them old builders you made me read on knew what they were doing!”

 

 

   He smiles at her with a flash of shared mirth, and she returns the gesture and curls her fingers around his arm more securely, and then he sobers and adds reassuringly,

 

 

   “The King knows what he's about as well, Princess.”

 

 

   “I know that, I do,” Shireen hastens to say, deeply earnest,

 

 

   “And I know this is the best way to go about this, I don't doubt my father, but... you're right, I think. I know my father feels he should have done better by me than raise me on battlefields, but I've never felt the lack of walls to defend me. I have never felt truly unsafe - I have always known that I was with him and surrounded by those loyal to him, to us. Good people,” she adds with a heartfelt press of his arm and a grateful look at his somewhat humbled expression, always the case when she pays him a kindness, and then she goes on with a little more difficulty,

 

 

   “But this is strange to me. I feel as though we are... vulnerable is not the word I want, but...” she struggles silently for a moment, and Davos looks at her gravely, letting her find her way until she at last comes to,

 

 

   “I feel overly sheltered, staying behind the Wall and sending men out to fight in drips and drops like this. Only responding, rather than taking control of the course of things. It seems... not dishonourable, I know my father would never do anything that was, but...”

 

 

   “You've grown used to being in the thick of it,” Davos supplies wisely, a modicum of protectiveness entering his tone,

 

 

   “I don't know if that was your father's intention but it's plain enough to me that he's raised you to be the sort of queen who'll fight her own battles rather than hide in some stronghold and leave it to generals - you're more a natural general than some o' them lords, I find! It's not in you to shy from a fight, so it won't feel natural to you, fighting this way, but sometimes, it's the better choice.”

 

 

   “You don't much like that I'd rather lead from the front, do you?” Shireen asks him quietly, not blind to the emotion behind his words, and he ducks his head for a moment.

 

 

   “It's not my place to object, and I won't say I don't admire you for it,” he tells her gruffly, glancing at her sideways as if he can't quite make himself meet her inquiring eye,

 

 

   “And I don't blame the King for keeping you close as he could all these long years of strife, and I can see all the good it's done you both, but... No, Princess. It'll never sit quite right with me, you feeling that your place is in the fray, not when I've known you as long as I have done. Not when I've loved you as if you were my own all these years. I'll never learn to like the idea of you not being as safe as you might be made,” he confesses, heavy with feeling and honesty, and then he looks at her with soft, deep eyes and adds,

 

 

   “But I'm proud of you all the same, and I'll not stand in your way or try and stop you if there ever comes a time to fight for you and you decide you're not staying back from it for your own sake.”

 

 

   Tears well in her eyes, and she blinks to keep them at bay, but Davos sniffs loudly and clears his throat, looking down at the snow at their feet and then up at the sky for a few long blinks of his own, and then he turns a brilliant grin on her and says lightly, with affectionate teasing and mock-exasperation,

 

 

   “It'd be pointless, my trying to dissuade you, any rate - you're just as bloody relentless as your father and always have been! I don't wonder you've grown up a better general than most of their lordships, or that you'd rather be on deck to keep an eye on things 'stead of running your ship from the cabin like some I could mention. You've always had a spine of ruddy bedrock, and more's the fool who doubts it!”

 

 

   “The Lord Commander says much the same thing, though I rather think I'm adding to his already considerable cares by refusing to keep to the castle where I can be guarded at all times,” Shireen says with a snort and then a little laugh, and Davos jostles her slightly and waggles his eyebrows and thickens his dialect to reply,

 

 

   “Ach, well - fair play to the boy, he were raised by wolves, how's he to know better than t' be afraid for a little doe like y'self, eh?”

 

 

   Shireen does laugh aloud at that, so ridiculous a picture does he make himself, but again he is not wrong, and so she shakes her head as her mirth subsides and allows,

 

 

   “Poor thing, he's so worried - I'm sure Ygritte's told him he's for the chop if she comes back and finds me in anything but the pieces she left me in!”

 

 

   “Aye, well,” Davos says seriously, titling his head and sucking in a breath at the mention of the Lady Commander,

 

 

   “There's another lady not to be trifled with, and no mistake. Let's not think badly of the lad if he's been charged with your safety from that corner - that'd be enough to send any man grey before his time!”

 

 

   “What with my troublesome wilfulness,” Shireen teases in an airy tone, pretending to disparage the trait, and Davos nods exaggeratedly.

 

 

   “Oh, aye, Princess, if that's what ye'd like to call it,” he agrees, and she shoves him a little and makes him pretend to stagger, laughing together raucously.

 

 

   “What should I call it then? Gilly tells me Peasebury's preferred term is 'unwomanly', and I've heard bids for 'bloody-minded' - I think 'wilful' is a sight less insulting and perhaps a sight less prejudiced,” she shares, and though shadows cross Davos' face briefly when she speaks of how she is herself spoken of by some, he quickly recovers his good spirits and merely says magnanimously,

 

 

   “I like 'wilful', Princess - there's aught wrong with wilfulness when you come down to it. Who'd want a queen who blows this way and that and doesn't know her own mind? They'll come to sense in the end, mark my words.”

 

 

   “I always do and I always will,” she tells him warmly, feeling her face glow with fondness and the delight of joking with an old and honest friend, and she hugs his arm close and leans her temple on his shoulder briefly, enjoying the proximity and the sensation of complete security, and perhaps he knows, for he says nothing further, and they pass the rest of their walk back to the castle in companionable silence this way until he delivers her to the King's Tower with a flourishing bow and a kiss to her forehead and a hope to see her again before the day is out, and in return she kisses his cheek and sends him off, and then settles in to try and write a letter in reply to one she received from lady Alys, but she finds she can do little more than brood over the day's conversations and so she makes little headway and is almost startled when Gilly comes to find her and ask where she would prefer to dine.

 

 

   “I thought I might join my father this evening,” she shares, trying to smooth the crease from between her brows with her forefinger,

 

 

   “He'll be in his chambers with Davos and the Lord Commander, I trust?”

 

 

   “Yes, my lady, everything's ready for it - you could go down direct if you liked,” Gilly tells her, and Shireen rises from her table, overcome with a slight dizziness as she does, but then Gilly is at her side and she is recovered, taking the opportunity to hug Gilly to her, and Gilly returns the embrace easily and remarks,

 

 

   “I think the walk did you good, my lady - and speaking to Ser Seaworth, of course.”

 

 

   “I shan't ask how you know that when I didn't see hide nor hair of you getting back,” Shireen replies dryly,

 

 

   “You and your spies.”

 

 

   “If I'm to be Hand of the Queen I'd best make sure I know where she is and who she sees, hadn't I?” Gilly counters airily, releasing Shireen and instead righting her hair for her and brushing off her sleeves, beginning to tidy her writing things away for her, and then looking up to see Shireen gazing at her fondly, commenting,

 

 

   “Best you be going down for dinner then, unless there's something you're wanting..?”

 

 

   “Ah, no - ” Shireen catches herself, and then thinks better of it and asks,

 

 

   “Well, yes - I was asked - that is, do you think you could dig out my harp and see if it's playable? Only, I thought I might...”

 

 

   “Of course!” Gilly exclaims brightly, encouraging,

 

 

  “And you needn't worry it's playable - I've kept it well for you, knowing you'd find joy in it again someday, so whenever you want it, it's all ready for you.”

 

 

   “Oh, Gilly,” Shireen mumbles, overcome briefly and rushing to throw her arms around her, and Gilly laughs at it but holds her just as closely as Shireen holds her, and then kisses her cheek soundly and tells her,

 

 

   “It's no more than what's right, you know. Now off you go to eat, the King'll be glad to see you tonight. Sam told me earlier he's been in a black cloud all day since the council. No doubt it's those bloody lords - I don't envy either of you!”

 

 

   “Thank you, Gilly,” Shireen tells her with feeling, smoothing her hand over Gilly's cheek fondly and then making for the door, remembering just before she leaves to ask,

 

 

   “Would you kiss the boys for me, too, please?”

 

 

   “It'd be third time today but I've no doubt they'll like it just as well,” Gilly comments with mock-loftiness, and Shireen grins broadly at it before hurrying to her father's chambers, nodding her gratitude to Ser Horpe when he steps aside to allow her within and bows to her deeply.

 

 

   “Princess!” Davos greets her instantly, rising from his seat as the first though he is swiftly followed by the King and Lord Commander,

 

 

   “This is a rare treat! Will you be joining us?”

 

 

   “I thought I would,” she confirms, returning his smile and taking her place beside her father, who acknowledges her with a nod as everyone sits with her,

 

 

   “And later I thought I might bring my harp into the hall and sing awhile, if no one objects to it.”

 

 

   If she had expected any objection here she gets precisely none.

 

 

   “A rarer treat still!” Davos proclaims it,

 

 

   “I can't imagine a man in his right mind objecting to that - may I ask what inspired the urge? It's been a long time since last I heard you sing; I half feared you'd given it up.”

 

 

   “Oh, no,” she replies, rather blindly taking a little of what is closest to her, trying to cover  her shyness with grace in reserve,

 

 

   “I simply hadn't time for it, but... the request was made of me, and provided no strenuous objections are raised, I could see no reason to refuse when asked.”

 

 

   “You'll have to tell me who made the request then, so I can tell them well done,” Davos says jovially,

 

 

   “We'll all be the richer for hearing you, I wager - I well recall how fair your voice is.”

 

 

   “Ah, we'll see,” she replies mildly,

 

 

   “It's been so long since last I even looked at my harp, I may be as tuneless as a raven!”

 

 

   “I doubt that,” Davos insists warmly, and Shireen smiles at him with equal feeling and then looks to her father who is silent but attentive with it, for all he dislikes conversing during meals.

 

 

   “By your leave, father,” she says with quiet deference,

 

 

   “Unless you have another use for the hall this evening.”

 

 

   “No,” he tells her shortly,

 

 

   “Do as you please. I should be glad to hear you also.”

 

 

   It surprises her, but she does what she can not to let it show, only nodding and continuing with her meal, though she knows it will get back to Gilly somehow that she is eating only very little and Gilly will likely have her eat something more afore she retires for the night, and Shireen wonders whether it is the same apprehension and anticipation of tomorrow's fighting which causes her to eat so sparingly and her father to speak as he does, for he has always enjoyed her playing before, but to be so demonstratively in favour is unlike him.

 

 

   At length Jon Snow makes his excuses that he has matters to attend to, thanking them for their sufferance of his presence among them, and Shireen smiles at how stiff his courtesy remains even after these long years of familiarity not only with her but with Davos, but her father nods him off sternly, and Shireen surmises he has gone to speak with the Skagosi - with his brother, she realises.

 

 

   His brother, whom she met this day if Davos saw truly, and who laughed with her and spoke to her as though she were neither princess nor pestilential, and whose request she means to fulfil after this, for all it fills her with apprehension of a different sort.

 

 

   The idea makes her distant, and she hears Davos and her father very briefly remark that she must be tired, but she shakes her head of it and insists she is well and redoubles her efforts to follow the conversation at hand - all of tomorrow's battle to be, of course, and when they have eaten their fill, she takes her leave of them with a kiss to each of their cheeks and goes to her rooms where Gilly remains or has returned to, now polishing Shireen's harp, though it takes no more than first glance to tell that Gilly was true to her word when she said it'd been kept ready all this time.

 

 

   Shireen undoes her hair as she strides into the room, causing Gilly to look up and blink in surprise, for usually Shireen wears it braided back so that she is unmistakeable, but she has decided that she will do this thing she has been asked to, and feels in need of some shield for the scorn she is likely to attract not only for doing this but simply for existing, and for lack of better she has thusly decided she will loosen her hair and hide behind that as she sings.

 

 

   “I am taking it down to the hall,” she informs Gilly with perhaps more stateliness than is required, flinging back her hair now that it is loose and already beginning to annoy her, and Gilly widens her eyes in further surprise but is quick to adjust, insisting,

 

 

   “I'll come with you,” and Shireen is so grateful for the support and company that she says nothing further, only lets Gilly heft the harp since she is determined Shireen shall not carry it herself, and they make their way to the hall in rather mutually decided silence.

 

 

   It is packed, and so hardly quiet, the evening meal already doled out to all who came to it and the men now milling about in droves with their ale or at dice at the tables or otherwise occupying themselves in the warmth from the fires and keeping their minds from thoughts of what awaits some of them upon the new day.

 

 

   A space is cleared as always before the largest hearth, and that is where Gilly sets the harp and Shireen arranges herself, and so she sits before the instrument in a pool of light and heat and sets her fingers upon the strings before she can lose her nerve.

 

 

   Beyond her are the clear sounds of those who are drinking to steel themselves for the battle on the morrow, and the encouragements of their comrades who are not bound to go out, and Shireen plucks out a simple tune at first as she allows herself to sink into the mindset required for playing and to recall what she had tentatively thought she might sing, acknowledging Gilly's touch upon her shoulder and low informing,

 

 

   “I have to see to the boys - Lord Commander's not far off from you, and I see the King other end of the hall,” with a brief shared look and a quick wavering smile, and then Gilly is gone and Shireen is left to breathe deeply and bow her head over her harp and pay as little attention as possible to the mass of men from behind the curtain of her hair, putting it all from her mind as best she can as she sings, not trying to compete with what other noise there is, but still likely audible to most, and she keeps her thoughts in her fingers and else lets them stray where they will, weaving in and about the stories of the words she sings and what she will choose next.

 

 

   How long she's sung she is unsure when she hears again, close enough to discern, that harsh-sounding tongue which seems so foreign here amid common revelry and thus stands out further, approving tones stealing her attention to say,

 

 

   “Sweet a voice as I ever heard,” and another, softer, which she cannot make out but provides a reply, and it warms her heart and she smiles with it, safely hidden from any who may be watching her and not only listening by the fall of her hair, for she used to think when she was quite young still and yet more sensitive to these matters that her voice was indeed quite pleasant, and so she felt it made up a little for the decided unloveliness of her face, and thusly it pleases her to hear that she is not alone in thinking that even now.

 

 

   Someone else speaks then, a southern voice and a tongue she is very well used to, though it is somehow harsher than the Old which spoke before and she cannot think it connected with, rough with drink and casual mockery when it rises above its companions briefly to opine,

 

 

   “Sings like a bird - shame about the feathers!” to what seems to be great amusement if the uproarious laughter it meets with is any indication, and Shireen's smile fades as she bows her head further, for she doesn't disagree but that makes it no less of an insult and no less hurtful, but the raucous mirth of it breaks into clamour of a different sort, shouts and clattering and the deep, sonorous crash of a long and heavy bench being toppled over, and she looks up with stilling hands to see the Lord Commander close before her with his cloak thrown back and his hand upon his sword, facing a small group of southerners she doesn't recognise, with a handful of Skagosi at his back and all the surrounding men looking on in anticipation and wariness, but that imminent fight is not so urgent as that which would almost appear to be already over and is practically at her feet.

 

 

   The toppled bench is at the table nearest to Shireen, and it looks to her as though the southerners who now stand before the Lord Commander seemingly ready to fight either him or his guests must have been sat upon it before they sprang up when it was overturned, but it also appears that it was overturned in the first place by the force of the youth who requested Shireen play this evening vaulting the table it stood at to fall upon and accost one of the southern soldiers, for this one soldier's legs remain tangled in the bench and trapped by it and the boy Davos named her a Stark is knelt upon the man's torso and rendering his arms immobile, with a blade pressed to his throat so that he cannot breathe much at all, and suddenly neither can Shireen.

 

 

   It is distant to her, the sounds of the southerners protesting this outrage, insisting their fellow be released and the Skagosi punished, and only somewhat less distant the sound of Jon Snow's voice commanding,

 

 

   “Put away your steel and step down and I will handle this myself!” but clear as a hard-struck bell is the whining of the felled soldier and through it she hears the Lord Commander's order to what Shireen now thinks may be his brother, a firm and thunderous,

 

 

   “Let him up,” and of course there can be no doubt as to whom he is addressing, but he is obeyed only in so far as the youth hauls the soldier to his feet, dragging him free of the bench with a terrible screech of heavy wood upon flagstones, and instead throws him to his knees directly in front of Shireen, twisting his arms up behind him and making him yell for it, and then laying his blade against the man's throat again with a dark and wholly vicious snarl of,

 

 

   “ ** _Apologise_**.”

 

 

   It does not register with Shireen that he even spoke in the Old Tongue until southern voices in turn register as complaints that they,

 

 

   “Don' speak Skag - ” and cries of,

 

 

   “What's 'e sayin'?” and a growing cacophony of anger, and she finds herself automatically translating in a shaken, soft voice that is heard by seemingly no one,

 

 

   “He said _'apologise'_ ,” but all the racket about them is only interrupted by the sound of the King barking,

 

 

   “ ** _Enough!_** ” and Shireen tears her gaze from how the southern soldier swallowing against the blade she has no doubt will cut his throat before her very eyes was told to apologise to her for his slight against her by the same lad who asked she be here this evening, and she glances to her father only just in time to see him push past the men behind Jon Snow and demand,

 

 

   “What is the meaning of this?”

 

 

   “Your Grace - ” Jon Snow begins, stepping forward with a nervous air to him now, and by Stannis' side Shireen sees Davos frown deeply and make to address her father also, but the Stark lad is not so easily cowed it seems, for he looks at Stannis with a hard and appraising eye and growls, now in the Common Tongue but so distorted by obvious bloodlust and rage that Shireen cannot tell whether in fact his speech is as accented as that of his comrades,

 

 

  “He insults the princess,” and Shireen can see the minute flash of surprise on her father's otherwise stern face before he quells it and says quite coolly,

 

 

   “I'll have him flogged. Tell me why I shouldn't order you flogged as well for baring steel in this hall.”

 

 

   Shireen holds her breath, for she knows her father will do just as he says if he is not given some miraculous reason not to do so, he will not bend the rules simply to spare someone for having acted in the name of Shireen's honour - a glance at Davos' hand attests to Stannis' attitude towards rule-bending at any cost, but the Stark meets Stannis' harsh eye head-on and without a trace of concern or remorse, without relaxing his grip on the southerner at all, and simply replies,

 

 

   “It's not steel.”

 

 

   Shireen is sure that others must now also be able to see the surprise on her father's face, but she glances at the blade, too, and sees that indeed it is not steel, it is obsidian, the finest such blade she has ever seen, shining in the firelight, and Stannis must see the same, for he nods grimly and states,

 

 

   “Indeed not, so I won't make you give it up. Good answer, it's saved you a lashing. It won't work a second time.”

 

 

   Apart from a quick flash of teeth the Stark lad looks utterly uncaring on that front, and when Stannis adds an echo of Jon Snow's earlier,

 

 

   “Let him up,” he does so without comment, but he also runs the edge of his blade in a thin line across the southerner's throat, bright red blood springing forth at once although despite the man's cry the wound is obviously nowhere near deep enough to do more than bleed a little across its length and close swiftly once more, and so the King does not remark upon it though by the way the fool clutches at his neck anyone might think he'd been cut badly, but he has at least enough sense it seems to prostrate himself before his King, whereas the Stark stands at ease at Shireen's shoulder.

 

 

   She finds it so distracting that she hardly hears the grovelling wretch's apologies to her father, nor does she pay particular attention to Stannis passing sentence and lecturing that there's to be no fighting in the hall.

 

 

   In fact she only comes back to herself when her father mentions her name and that a similar punishment of the lash awaits any man who speaks ill of her unless she personally pardons them, and asks whether she will do so in this instance.

 

 

   Whether it is the fact that she is simply sick of bearing up under insults even from her own people and having to always ignore it for the sake of others and she is over-weary of politics dictating her actions, or the fact that she can practically taste the thwarted violence seeping from the Stark at her side, when the man who wishes to avoid a flogging aims his insincere and overdone apologies her way under her father's direction - and for the first time - Shireen feels only cold fury.

 

 

   “I do not forgive,” she declares, clear and decided,

 

 

   “The punishment is earned. But if you wish to earn back your honour and our respect, you may prove it on the field. Fight well and at the front, and perhaps your name will recover from the shameful way you have chosen to sully it.”

 

 

   “You heard,” the King says coldly when the man unwisely turns to Stannis to have it confirmed, and the King orders,

 

 

   “Take him outside and see it done.”

 

 

   Shireen vaguely notices Ser Horpe and two others obeying the command before her father asks her,

 

 

   “If you would continue?” and she realises that he means her playing, and she murmurs some affirmative and returns to her task, but now she can't help but be aware that her father has taken a seat close at hand, swirling wine in a cup and staring into the fire, broodingly, and beside her a few paces off the Stark sits, staring at her in a way she can feel however much she tries to hide behind her hair.

 

 

   It is not long before her voice falters and her fingers still again, and she makes her excuses that she is hoarse, refusing a drink to ease her throat, and asking leave to go, and her father waves her off with a hand, but she sees the concern in Davos' eyes as she pushes away her harp and bends her neck to them both, gathering her skirts and leaving the hall as fast as she can while maintaining her dignity, and she is not stopped, nor does any meet her eye as she goes, although in truth she seeks no one's gaze for she is overwhelmed with everything that has happened, unused to being defended or demanding her due, unused to -

 

 

   She is in the corridor when a hand snags her arm and she slips the dagger Ygritte gave her years ago - the very one that took the life of Val when finally she went to kill Shireen herself - from her sleeve and rounds to press it to the hollow of the Stark's throat, for it is he who came after her, and for a moment they stand there motionless in the light of the torches along the walls, unseen and unspeaking.

 

 

   His eyes never flinch from hers, but he also does not release her, not until she takes her dagger away and secrets it again, and then he merely stands before her and she says rather stiffly,

 

 

   “Forgive me, my lord.”

 

 

   “Forgive me,” he echoes, his voice still dark,

 

 

   “You could have killed me.”

 

 

   “My playing didn't, so I must work by other means,” she bites back, even though he did not tease, even though there is nothing but respect in his expression, but something more than that, and then his tone lowers further and he says,

 

 

   “You could have killed _him_ ,” and Shireen is somehow sure he means that it would have been her right, and she thinks again to how it seemed he was almost presenting the hapless fool to her before, awaiting her decision, her judgment, before the King intervened to provide his.

 

 

   “My lord, if I killed every man who insults me, we'd have little army left to us, and if I merely cut them as you did this man, you could soon know all those who follow my father by those scars alone,” Shireen says, weary and cutting in her tone if nothing else, perhaps using slight exaggeration for emphasis, but not by so much that it doesn't still depress her a little.

 

 

   “You never have?” he asks her with an almost perturbed frown, and she shakes her head, keeping her smile but remaining honest when she replies,

 

 

   “Not for insults, no. It is not treason to call your ugly princess ugly in her hearing. It is only rude.”

 

 

   “They need to show you respect,” he insists, clearly offended on her behalf still, and she finds it quite endearing in the most deeply exhausted parts of herself, thinks perhaps this is something of his Stark blood showing, for Jon Snow reacts poorly to the insulting of women also.

 

 

   “You will be their Queen,” he goes on, as if that is reason enough to demand they all be hung from gibbets for calling her names.

 

 

   “That is true - if I live long enough,” she allows,

 

 

   “And I will remember who offered me aid and who offered me insult.”

 

 

   “Why should you not live to be Queen?” he asks, looking grave and disquieted, sounding disturbed, and it is a look Jon Snow wears so oft Shireen sees clear resemblance between them in it.

 

 

   “There are enough who wish me dead,” she says frankly, too tired to wrap it in courtesies,

 

 

   “And this war may yet kill us all. I don't think wights will care for human hierarchies.”

 

 

   “We will keep you safe, princess,” the Stark tells her softly, and it sounds as if he is making her a personal promise rather than simply seeking to reassure her that they are not all doomed, and she realises that they are speaking the Common Tongue, and that his is accented but not so heavily as she had believed it would be.

 

 

   “I have no desire to be kept safe, my lord, if it is at the cost of my people,” Shireen declares, suddenly proud and feeling the anger of everything that has passed overcome her shock and fatigue, adding,

 

 

   “ _Or_ my allies.”

 

 

   “No,” he accepts without a hint of argument, his gaze unyielding and steady,

 

 

   “You are worthy. But it is my choice.”

 

 

   He takes the blade he almost used to cut a man's throat this evening and holds it out to her as if for her to take, and she looks between it and his impassive face briefly.

 

 

   “Thank you, my lord, I have my own,” she tells him, as neutrally as she can force herself to, hoping she is not inadvertently giving offence, and adding,

 

 

   “I will not ask anything of you. Keep yourself safe.”

 

 

   “You won't even ask my name?” he demands quietly, intent upon her even more so than he was earlier in the day, and Shireen keeps her features still.

 

 

   “I already know it, my lord,” she replies, just as quiet as he, and something passes over his face.

 

 

   “Do you?” he asks her, a soft, low growl, nothing threatening in it but making her stomach clench all the same, and Shireen forces herself to be calm and clear.

 

 

   “I do,” she says with cool finality, keeping her eyes on his as relentless as his are upon hers, with all the force of will she knows herself to possess, and then issues as though an order,

 

 

   “Keep yourself safe, my lord,” breaking the moment and walking away with purpose and strength to her step, and she does not look back even once, but when she reaches her own rooms in the King's Tower, her foot disturbs something in a bundle just outside her door, and she kneels to take it upon her lap and see what it is.

 

 

   Unwrapping the loose furl of dark cloth, she uncovers two identical obsidian blades.

 

 

   The edge of one is stained red.

 

 

   -

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone, you are all very welcome to participate in the Rickeen Shipweek 2016, kindly arranged by the gracious Frozensnares - I shall be participating, and hope to see you all there in some shape or form!
> 
>  
> 
> [Shipweek Details Here!](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/post/146784261466/rickeen-shipweek-2016)
> 
>  
> 
> -
> 
> For reasons related to my health, in future until I am fully recovered, no further updates will be published unless the most recently posted chapters of my works receive three comments minimum, as it transpires that it apparently does not do the slowly healing 3rd degree burn on my dominant hand any favours that I get overly excited and write and publish upwards of 20,000 words of fic in under a week, so I am creating this rule in hopes it will give me incentive to make myself take breaks so I don't aggravate my injury.
> 
> I sincerely hope that you will all be understanding of my need to do this - I am terrible at self-care at the best of times and if I don't make a few rules for it I will neglect my healing process entirely.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

   Shireen has barely slept.

 

 

   She can't think she is the only one who has not been able to find true rest this night, nor does she think she is the only one who has laid down to try with knives for bedfellows, but unlike most others who have passed the night thusly, she has lain sleepless in this way not for fear of the coming battle but because the events of her evening and the knives on the pillow beside her have preyed upon her mind too hard to let her sleep.

 

 

   Instead she feels as if she has lain all night half-dozing, watching the light from her fire lick over the blades she found by her door and wondering about them.

 

 

   She knows where they must surely come from, though it baffles her how they managed to appear where they did, and there can be no mistaking the stain on the one of them, but what perplexes her more than that is the _why_ of it all, and that is what has kept her awake.

 

 

   Initially she had placed them on her table in their cloth wrapping, intending to ignore them and go to bed as usual, but they continued to steal her attention until finally she gave up and took them to bed with her, where she has been contemplating them ever since.

 

 

   What she does not understand is much more than the mystery of how they found their way to her door before she did herself, or why they were left there when she thought she had been clear that she needs and asks nothing from their owner but that he stay alive.

 

 

   What concerns and confuses her is why their owner chose to do as he did.

 

 

   She had decided already for her own sake after Davos left her to her own company yesterday that she will not even begin to examine what possible reasons the youth he told her was a Stark may have had for speaking to her as he did in the Skagosi camp, but she does not now feel she can afford to ignore it when taken into account alongside his later violent reaction to hearing her slighted.

 

 

   The answer she has at last settled upon is not the _only_ possibility, but it is the only one which she feels lies somewhere between the least flattering - namely that it is all a subtle attempt to curry her favour as the King's daughter, which surely would be to the Stark's advantage if he truly hopes to lead the secession of the North as its new ruler in time - and the most ridiculous - the absurd notion that all the teasing of yesterday might have been meant in truth and that this is why he was seemingly ready, even eager, to kill a man at her feet for insulting her - and so Shireen can find no more reasonable explanation than that this is what Jon Snow meant when he told her that the Skagosi appreciate her support and defence of them, manifesting itself in the Stark lad making a literal point of their mutually declared support of her in turn.

 

 

   For all she has decided that good reason and good will must dictate that his actions were all by way of a clear statement that the Skagosi take their alliance seriously though, she has not been able to quiet the murmurings of suspicion that there is something more at work here than what she can see, hidden motivations she is not privy to, and as always with things which leave room for such doubts, she can't let it lie.

 

 

   Perhaps because she has felt the creeping of guilt in her heart all night as she has brooded on all the various potential reasons behind yesterday's events and the subsequent arising of several possibilities in her mind which do not paint the Stark in a positive light, when Gilly opens the door and enters briskly, Shireen startles and sweeps the knives under the pillow in one furtive motion as she sits up abruptly to look to where Gilly stands by her bedside with crossed arms and an unimpressed expression.

 

 

   “I'd say good morning, my lady, but it's not and we both know it,” Gilly says shortly, nodding at where Shireen's hand is clenched in the pillow and demanding,

 

 

   “You'd better tell me what that is sharpish, because I've been hearing an awful lot of talk this morning of all manner of goings-on since I left you to your own devices last night, and I don't like any of it enough not to be worried.”

 

 

   Under Gilly's suspicious, concerned gaze, Shireen sighs and lifts the pillow away, bringing out the knives and holding them out for Gilly to see, trying to inject some unfelt confidence and reassurance into her voice as she says,

 

 

   “Now before you start fretting, there's no need. There was a slight altercation in the hall last night after you left me, but it was swiftly dealt with and there is absolutely no cause for concern, and neither are these - I simply found them outside my door when I returned. I'm sure it's a mistake.”

 

 

   “You _found_ them,” Gilly echoes with such profound disbelief that she might as well call Shireen a liar, sweeping her gaze over the knives appraisingly, frown deepening,

 

 

   “Someone was careless enough to leave _those_ in front of your door. In the King's Tower.”

 

 

   The look she levels at Shireen practically does denounce her for a liar, but Shireen holds firm.

 

 

   “Evidently, someone did leave them there, carelessly or not, because that is where I found them, Gilly,” she insists, meeting Gilly's gaze head-on and trying to ignore the fact that her hair's probably a mess because she didn't even comb it out before bed and that she feels scruffy and exhausted and not at all in a position to be calm and regal in the face of interrogation, and Gilly's mouth thins.

 

 

   “I see. And you kept them under your pillow so you wouldn't forget to return them to their rightful owner today?” she asks, her expression and leading tone speaking volumes on how little she believes that, too, and Shireen frowns.

 

 

   “Well I certainly don't intend to _keep_ them - they aren't mine,” she says slowly, clearly, so Gilly cannot misunderstand her, but Gilly snorts and rolls her eyes.

 

 

   “Oh no, they're not yours, my lady,” she agrees tartly, and then her eye sharpens and she adds pointedly,

 

 

   “But I think we both know where they came from, or have a fair idea, and I think you know how I have to feel about it and that's why you'd rather I'd not noticed!”

 

 

   “Gilly,” Shireen begins, a weary appeal, slipping her legs out of bed and pushing aside the covers, feeling unequal to this conversation while she's still in her nightclothes and discarding the offending knives amidst the furs, but Gilly doesn't listen, her eyes bright with worry and anger.

 

 

   “Oh, I believe you found them as you say, you're no liar, but how do you suppose they got there?” she demands,

 

 

   “From the moment I woke this morning it seems I've heard nothing but how one of your new friends all but gutted some southerner like a hog for calling you names, and here I find you've slept all night - ”

 

 

   “Who slept?” Shireen murmurs bitterly, casting about for a pair of shoes as she chafes her feet together on the rug which does little to mask the chill of the floor, but Gilly carries on as if she said nothing.

 

 

   “ - next to a pair of knives you _found_ outside your door afterwards - outside your door _in the King's Tower_ \- and I'm not supposed to _worry_?”

 

 

   “I'd rather you didn't,” Shireen tells her honestly, giving up the search for shoes and instead grasping for the robe at the foot of her bed and shrugging into it, irritably hauling the length of her hair out of it and pulling it over her shoulder, and Gilly puts her hands on her hips instead and glares at her.

 

 

   “You expect me not to when I can't leave you alone for an evening without fights breaking out in the hall and southerners calling for executions and threatening to rebel?”

 

 

   “It really wasn't as bad as all that,” Shireen insists irritably, and Gilly scoffs.

 

 

   “Wasn't it?” she snaps,

 

 

   “Then why don't _you_ tell me what happened, because I've heard half a dozen versions of it from the kitchens to here and each one worse than the last, and I've a very good mind _to_ worry!”

 

 

   “Well don't,” Shireen says firmly, rummaging for her comb on the table which surely wasn't as untidy and impossible to navigate as this when she went to bed, glancing up at Gilly sharply and carrying on,

 

 

   “You should know better than to listen to gossip by now - no one exaggerates as much as a soldier, and I daresay they needed something to distract them from what's to happen today, so perhaps it wasn't such a terrible thing after all!”

 

 

   “Not such a terrible thing,” Gilly mutters angrily under her breath as she stalks over to Shireen, shoves her into her chair with two hands on her shoulders, and then sweeps aside a sheaf of papers on the table to uncover the comb, which she takes up in a business-like fashion and then stabs in Shireen's direction with weighty condemnation, declaring,

 

 

   “This is the last time I'm ever leaving you to get yourself to bed without coming to see you first - I knew it was a mistake - Sam will just have to do without from now on - ”

 

 

   “Gilly!” Shireen exclaims, shocked at the implication, and Gilly tosses her head remorselessly and repeats,

 

 

   “He will!” and then sets the comb to Shireen's hair and carries on darkly,

 

 

   “Can't trust anyone to have the sense they were born with - I suppose after all the brawling was done, no one had a thought to take you back to the tower so you wouldn't be alone? No, of course they didn't - ” she snorts angrily, not waiting to have her presumptions confirmed,

 

 

   “It's not as though you were the King's only child, is it! _Honestly_ ,” she fumes,

 

 

   “From now on and until Ygritte comes back to us, I'll just have to watch you myself, I can see no one else is up to it!”

 

 

   “Gilly, I absolutely forbid you to neglect Sam and the children to follow me about, don't be ridiculous!” Shireen orders, turning her head to try and look at her sternly and only succeeding in getting her hair pulled because of it, continuing in as reasonable a tone as she can manage as she stares stiffly ahead and Gilly untangles her hair vigorously but gently,

 

 

   “And when Ygritte comes back I'll forbid _her_ to neglect her first duties to do the same if I must - there is absolutely no need for all this fretting. _Yes_ , there was a very brief and _contained_ fight last night in the hall, and _yes_ , it was because one of the Skagosi took exception to hearing one of the southerners make some comment or other about me - you know how they sometimes do that - but the King handled everything and I'm sure whatever stories you've heard of it today have been wildly exaggerated.”

 

 

   “ _Wildly exaggerated_ , my foot!” Gilly denounces,

 

 

   “I suppose that's why when I happened to pass the Lord Commander in the hall, he took me aside looking all pinched and worried to ask whether _you_ were alright, when there's folk going through the gate today to face wights!”

 

 

   “I'm sure the greater part of his concern was absolutely for the fact that we're sending people through the gate,” Shireen insists,

 

 

   “You know how heavily everything weighs on him and how seriously he takes his responsibility - if he asked after my wellbeing I'm sure it was no more than a courtesy. I did retire from the hall last night after going hoarse, perhaps he was thinking of that when he asked if I was well.”

 

 

   Gilly manages to catch Shireen's eye in the mirror stood on the table despite Shireen's best efforts. She does not look impressed.

 

 

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but that's a steaming pile of shit,” she says flatly,

 

 

   “He told me himself he was worried you might be even less popular than usual because last night's fight led to the King having a southerner flogged, and your new friend didn't get so much as a slap on the wrist for starting it!”

 

 

   “He did _not_ start it, and that man deserved to be punished,” Shireen replies with vehemence, surprising herself with how deeply she feels it after letting the issue simmer overnight,

 

 

“Saying what he did in front of everyone - practically right under my own nose, right in front of Snow, _and_ while the King was in the hall to hear it himself if he'd cared to listen! It couldn't be forgiven!”

 

 

   “I don't disagree with that - you forgive that sort of thing far too often as it is - but I do agree with Jon Snow that they'll not love you better for being defended by one of that other lot, and they're like as not to take the side of the bastard who got himself a lashing, however deserved it was,” Gilly says severely, and Shireen fumes, muttering waspishly,

 

 

   “Well that's just pretty, then - when I let it slide, I'm too lenient, and when I'm defended and it's upheld, I am disliked even more for it - and he is not my new _friend_ , I've spoken to him all of _twice_ , it's _absurd_ \- ”

 

 

   “I knew it!” Gilly shouts triumphantly, throwing her hands in the air, comb clattering onto the floor, and then she takes hold of Shireen's chair and drags it round sharply, leaning down to narrow her eyes at her and demand,

 

 

   “I _knew_ that was the reason - I _knew_ it was someone you spoke to yesterday when you went to see them - who was it?”

 

 

   Blinking rapidly, eyes wide, Shireen shrinks back in her seat and takes too long to respond, trying to recover from the unexpected ambush, and Gilly stands back with her hands on her hips and declares,

 

 

   “And don't you dare tell me _'no one'_ \- they may be a strange lot, but if one of them went out of their way to stand up for you, that was no empty gesture, that was _for_ something!”

 

 

   “Well if it was _for_ anything then it was for nothing more than a few shared laughs on the outskirts of their camp before Davos joined me there,” Shireen says defensively,

 

 

   “It can't have been for anything else, because that is all there was!”

 

 

   “You said you spoke to him twice, when was the second time, then?” Gilly pushes suspiciously, and Shireen throws her own hands up in frustration.

 

 

   “After I left the hall - it was _nothing_ , Gilly,” she insists when Gilly's glare intensifies,

 

 

   “He only asked if I was alright, offered the opinion that my father's men should show me a little more respect - you agree with _that_ at least!”

 

 

   “You're hiding something,” Gilly somehow sees, examining Shireen intently as though the rest of the tale can be read on her,

 

 

   “There's something else to this!”

 

 

   “I refuse to be interrogated any further,” Shireen decides, glaring right back,

 

 

   “I have done nothing wrong!”

 

 

   “But you did _something_ ,” Gilly points out,

 

 

   “Or _he_ did - ” and then she blanches and in an undertone asks,

 

 

   “Did he - he didn't touch you, my lady?” and her eyes are wide with concern, and Shireen clenches her hands against the urge to reach for the spot on her arm where in fact he did, and cries,

 

 

   “ _No!_ Of course not - don't be ridiculous, Gilly, no one ever touches me, you know that,” but Gilly's frown darkens.

 

 

   “ _They_ don't care, though - not about the scales and not about southern princesses, they don't,” she reminds her, and Shireen hesitates too long because she can't refute that, but before Gilly can seize upon it and go on, Shireen crosses her arms and tells her firmly,

 

 

   “Well it doesn't matter - he wouldn't do that.”

 

 

   “And how can you be so sure if this is a person you've not spoken to above twice?” Gilly counters shrewdly, and Shireen opens her mouth to provide the best answer she has and then bites her tongue at once.

 

 

   She made a promise, and she cannot break it. It is not her secret to tell.

 

 

   “Davos trusts him,” is all she says, curt and dismissive,

 

 

   “And so does Jon Snow. I refuse to pursue this topic, Gilly, do you hear me? It is a distasteful waste of time, and my feet are cold.”

 

 

   That, at last, seems to do it, because Gilly jumps slightly and glances down at Shireen's curled and blueing toes, and then scurries off to retrieve Shireen's slippers, sliding them on to her feet silently before muttering,

 

 

   “I'll fetch you your tea, then,” and Shireen nods but does not reply, only glancing at Gilly's retreating back as she leaves at a brisk pace, and once she's gone, she rises to pick up the dropped comb, and set it back on the table, sitting back down and staring at it with unfocused eyes.

 

 

   She can't tell Gilly that she trusts the boy with the painted face because he might be a Stark.

 

 

   She certainly can't tell her that she _wants_ to trust him, not for any even slightly sensible reason like his possible heritage being above reproach, but for the simple fact that when she spoke to him for the first time, he treated her as though she were a person in her own right. Not a title, not the marks on her face and neck, but a person with a life and feelings of her own, worthy of note.

 

 

   It is childish and naive, and Shireen can't afford to be either. If she is so easily won over to someone's side, then she will make a sorry ruler when her time comes, and a fine target for anyone with enough skill at deception to play sincerity well.

 

 

   After all, who's to say that she is not being duped here? Who's to say that all of this has not simply been a scheme to earn her good graces, in preparation for a time not far from now when the North may need to remind her of her father's promises?

 

 

   The Starks as a whole may have reason to trust that she'll keep to her word, and that she'll do it gladly, but their King-to-be does not know her. It would not be beyond the pale for him to reserve judgment until he has formed his own opinion of her, or for him to feel it prudent to give Shireen reasons of her own to look upon him favourably, and by extension his personal cause.

 

 

   She would not be able to blame him for it, either.

 

 

   No one knows he's even still alive, but they hate the people with whom he was exiled enough that among them he can be anonymous as long as he appears to belong to them, a faceless entity to fear and distrust. He can afford to use that to his advantage and do as he did last night by standing up for Shireen, without having to fear being singled out for it later to face any consequences. It might well have been a calculated risk on his part to earn her favour - she highly doubts that any among her own people would recall his features well enough to recognise him for the deed, if he were to reveal his heritage later on and come to her and her father to demand they acknowledge his right to the North.

 

 

   Everything is politics, always, Shireen knows. Everyone has their own motives for all that they do, and some she can even understand well enough that when they act on them, she is neither surprised nor upset by it. She will not be surprised if time proves her right in this, and the youngest Stark chooses to leverage her good will to secure his future, and since it will be done to aid the North and re-stabilise it, she won't be upset by it.

 

 

   What will upset her, is knowing that it has been done so well that she did not initially see that she was being set up.

 

 

   What will hurt is knowing that she was never really just a person to someone else after all, and that is why she cannot admit to anyone, perhaps especially Gilly, that she was taken in by her own desire to be appreciated simply for herself, and that it left her vulnerable to the machinations - however excusable and understandable - of others.

 

 

   Glancing across the wreckage of papers and assorted paraphernalia on her table, she finds herself catching her own eye in the mirror at an angle, the fall of her hair and her altered sitting position showing her only the unblemished side of her face and none of her neck.

 

 

   _Beautiful_ , he called her, and would not allow her to evade it, or deny it.

 

 

   She does not make a habit of taking in her own reflection at great length, but she knows what she looks like.

 

 

   Tired, most of all, always tired somehow, but even disregarding the imperfection of her scars, she would never have been remarkable.

 

 

   In a way, the scars are the only point of interest about her face - all else is plain to her eyes, at worst too little of this and too much of that, and yet essentially uninspiring. She may have grown into her ears, at least, but beyond that her features have little to recommend them above those of any other.

 

 

   When she was a child, there were times she dreamt that she might grow into beauty at least partially, that despite her scars she might with time grow to be worth looking at. There were even a few terribly silly daydreams she now feels almost guilty to recall wherein she thought it would be splendid - would serve everyone right - if once she were no longer a child she could grow so lovely that her ugly side would only serve as a contrast, somewhere to rest the eye when cowed by how otherwise flawless she would be, but they were a child's fancy, a foolish, pointless escape from the reality which has always been that she is nothing in herself.

 

 

   Nothing to look at but for the curiosity of how she survived the greyscale. Nothing to recommend her but her wit, the skills acquired through application and persistence, and her position.

 

 

   Hers is not a face to go to war over. Hers is not a face to compel, or dwell upon except in impoliteness.

 

 

   She is striking, perhaps, but it is because she is ugly and strange in that ugliness, a sad figure at worst and a terrible one at best, if only because to be terrible implies that one has power of some kind and induces fear, and she does that indeed.

 

 

   Whether kindness or a desire to secure her good will motivated the Stark boy to speak to her as he did, she couldn't say, but it might just as well have been perversity on his part, a particularly well-executed private joke at her expense when they shared those few laughs, and later the evidence of his word in gesture he can well afford, to prove it to her in a way she cannot question or deny without giving offence.

 

 

   She knows better, though, than to take a compliment to her appearance as anything but manipulation or pity, and she will not be bought with pretty words that mean nothing and signify less. His open defence of her, his apparent willingness to leave sentencing to her before the King intervened - that, she will judge him by, and withhold her opinion until she knows better what drives him and what he may be after, and those things suggest a desire for politically beneficial allegiance.

 

 

   Davos trusts him, and seems to know better to trust him than Jon Snow, for having known him longer as he is now. Shireen will abide by Davos' judgment until she can better make her own. She will not be blinded by foolish personal issues. She will not be manipulated into doing or saying anything but what she would otherwise have chosen to by anything this painted youth says or does.

 

 

   She has already declared for the Stark cause. Any declaration in turn by them and theirs to her is not in itself special. She does not need to dwell on this, it is not strange that a Stark should recognise her as an ally. It is not strange that one raised in a strange place should choose to behave in ways she cannot immediately parse the meaning of, or choose to sound out her alliance for himself instead of relying on the word of others that it holds good and will extend to him.

 

 

   She will be distracted by all this no longer, and if it should prove as she fears that some manipulation is afoot, she will handle it as and when it becomes apparent, and it will not surprise her should the time come, but until then it is of little consequence.

 

 

   There are more pressing matters to concern her than to worry over things beyond her control which have not even shown her a hand to take or play against yet.

 

 

   Most pressing is how to mend things with Gilly, who enters the room again with a covered tray she sets before Shireen, blocking her sight of the mirror, and then moves all the mess on the table, shaping it into neat stacks efficiently as Shireen uncovers the tray and begins to eat her breakfast without a word while Gilly finishes combing out her hair.

 

 

   “Braided back, my lady?” she asks in subdued tones, and Shireen sighs and lays down her spoon.

 

 

   “Yes, please, Gilly,” she tells her as politely as she can, and when Gilly goes to her task with no further word, Shireen realises it must fall to her, and continues,

 

 

   “I did not mean to raise my voice. I apologise for it.”

 

 

   “I understand, my lady. I've no right to interrogate you, just as you say,” Gilly murmurs, quiet and carefully respectful, and Shireen curls her fingers around the cup of tea and decides to cede the necessary ground.

 

 

   “No, you haven't,” she agrees,

 

 

   “But I understand that you were concerned and upset, so I don't blame you for seeking the truth of what you'd heard rumoured a little more... passionately than might be proper.”

 

 

   “It's very kind of your Grace to forgive me,” Gilly acknowledges, and Shireen can practically hear the subservience. It's distasteful to her when she truly considers Gilly a friend, but it serves as a sharp reminder that her position is uniquely difficult in this - regardless of whom she speaks to, however close a friend they may be, she is still the King's daughter.

 

 

   Still, Gilly is going to be Shireen's Hand one day, and that counts for much.

 

 

“I said I do not blame you, Gilly,” Shireen makes clear,

 

 

   “There is nothing to forgive. I tried to keep something from you which you had better know to spare you worry, and that was foolish on my part, I will recognise and admit it. My only objection to your speaking as you did lies in your not believing my account of last night's events.”

 

 

   “You kept one thing back - or tried, anyhow - how am I to know that's all you'd keep from me?” Gilly asks, with a faint hint of upset to her otherwise purposely practical voice,

 

 

   “If I can ask one thing, it's for you not to try and spare me worry. I'll always worry. It's my lot to worry for you, and guard you where I can, and if you keep things from me so's I won't worry over you, how can I guard you right?”

 

 

   “You can't,” Shireen acknowledges simply,

 

 

   “So I promise that I will no longer seek to keep things from you to spare you concern. You will know what I know, and together we will tackle whatever problems come our way. After all,” she seeks to joke, wanting just a little levity on this terrible morning,

 

 

   “For all your spies, you'll make a terrible Hand of the Queen if you don't have the Queen's confidence!”

 

 

   The burst of laughter from Gilly over Shireen's shoulder is too wet for comfort, and Shireen feels her transfer the braid she is working on to a single hand and reach to wipe at her eyes, so before Gilly can take up her work again, Shireen makes sure to snag that free hand and clasp it tightly, promising her,

 

 

   “You do have my confidence, Gilly. Above all others, you have it. I am sorry I caused this rift between us and made you fear for me. I tell you truly, I will never conceal anything from you that it would be better for you to know unless doing so would have me forsworn. Alright?”

 

 

   She feels the brush of Gilly's lips on her hand and the tightening of Gilly's fingers before she lets go, and behind her she feels Gilly nod as she says,

 

 

   “It'll do, your Grace. It's a place to start from.”

 

 

   “Good,” Shireen tells her,

 

 

   “And if you still want the tale of it, last night's incident had no more content than a southerner seeking distraction from what's to be done today by calling me ugly for the benefit of his bench-mates and falling afoul of one of the Lord Commander's Skagosi guests overhearing it and taking exception for reasons best known to himself,” she lays out matter-of-factly, making sure to keep her account brief,

 

 

   “The ensuing brawl was soon over and the King put an end to the whole matter in short order. I withdrew not long after, and all else is as I told you before. Nothing else to any of it.”

 

 

   “I want to believe you, my lady,” Gilly tells her earnestly,

 

 

   “But I can't like the thought that one of that lot's taken enough of a shine to you that they'd stick their neck out for you like that, with the King himself present and all, and I _don't_ think it's coincidence that those fine knives just happen to appear on your threshold like that.”

 

 

   “I'm sure it isn't, but since I don't know one way or the other, I'm inclined to put it from my mind once I've seen them returned to whoever is to be leading the Skagosi today, so that I can be assured they'll be given to their rightful owner,” Shireen replies with care, putting just a hint of authority behind her words, and by the sound of Gilly's next she's sure there's an unhappy look on Gilly's face to match.

 

 

   “I don't like that the Tower's so badly watched anyone who fancies to can just sneak in and leave things where they might,” she insists,

 

 

   “That needs seeing to.”

 

 

   “By all means, Gilly, if it concerns you, speak to the Lord Commander,” Shireen allows, happier now that Gilly seems to have chosen this for her primary worry rather than lingering on the subject of Shireen's unidentified defender,

 

 

   “Perhaps you might even have a word with Ser Horpe, I'm sure it would concern him to know that gaining access to the King's Tower is so easy when the King is not here. After all, father keeps many important things in his chambers not meant for just anyone to see, and then there's always the worry someone might seek to do him ill somehow...”

 

 

   “Perhaps I'll have a word with Ser Horpe regardless and ask who exactly saw fit to insult the Princess for a lark,” Gilly says darkly, and Shireen tamps down the warmth rising in her chest at the knowledge that Gilly would see her avenged further, knowing that this is one of Gilly's greatest irritants, the ease with which most of her father's men dismiss and disrespect Shireen among themselves.

 

 

   “Does it matter now, though, Gilly? You should have seen him with that knife at his throat, he was frightened half to death, whatever joke he was making of me to take his mind off his looming duties beyond the Wall was dearly bought,” Shireen tells her gently, but it does little good, and in a way she can't help but be glad of it, that even after they've had a disagreement of sorts Gilly is still Shireen's best champion.

 

 

   “Well, I'm sure the twenty lashes he earned himself will have taken his mind off it, but it'll do nothing but slow him down today, the little shit,” Gilly opines with relish, and Shireen sighs.

 

 

   “I don't want him dead, Gilly. Men do not deserve to die for insulting me,” she insists, half wishing she could tell Gilly all the truth of how well she and the youngest Stark would agree on this difficult point if they were to meet, and it brings a tired smile to her face as Gilly secures a coiled braid at the side of Shireen's head and moves to the other side to begin there.

 

 

   “That certainly depends on the insult,” Gilly states with fiercely loyal decision, and Shireen chooses not to argue the point. It's enough that their disagreement is done and things are well between them once more, Shireen will hopefully have years to come in which to convince her Queen's Hand that demanding death to redress minor insult is a touch extreme however much Shireen appreciates the spirit in which such demands are intended.

 

 

   “Will you be fine today, my lady?” Gilly asks at length, once Shireen has eaten her fill and Gilly has finished her hair and is going to pick out Shireen's clothes, and it takes Shireen a moment to understand the question.

 

 

   “Why should I be?” she asks, frowning as she rises and moves closer to the newly-banked fire to undress and wash her face with the fresh water Gilly has poured for her,

 

 

   “Black will do. I've no need to play the fine lady here, you know that, and there's nothing to be fine for except sending men through the gate to face monsters.”

 

 

   “You're the Princess,” Gilly insists, sifting through the chest where she keeps Shireen's most used clothing,

 

 

   “You'll be Queen in time. Do you not want them to see you and know that?”

 

 

   “Anyone who knows that the King's daughter is ugly and scarred will know me on sight Gilly, whether I be decked in gold or no,” Shireen says crossly, wiping her face,

 

 

   “And after last night I doubt there's any left who won't know to look for it simply because there'll have been talk, same as you heard yourself coming up here. I see no reason to change my habits and try to look finer than I am in the wake of such an event, and I don't think it appropriate to dress up for the occasion of sending people to die in my name. I am not going to be such a queen as that, who hides behind silks and the swords of others and is too precious to dirty her hands if there's a need for it.”

 

 

   “Well, you'd be easier to see in a flock of crows if you would let me put you in gold,” Gilly grumbles,

 

 

   “And they should be made to look. Besides that, there's none who know you at all could think you're such a lady as that, or that you'll be such a queen. I've never heard of a princess who gets her hands dirty as yours!”

 

 

   “Why shouldn't I, since I'm able?” Shireen counters, the topic rankling, for she's heard enough from her father's lords that they think it improper that she does so much, but Gilly only sighs and turns to face her from her knees, looking up at her and asking,

 

 

   “What do you intend doing today, then? What's to be done?”

 

 

   “I shall join the King when the gate is opened, and perhaps on the Wall to see the first movements,” Shireen lists, removing her robe and nightclothes,

 

 

   “And then I have letters to write, and I must speak to Sam about rations, and if any are returned through the gate to be mended, I must be there to see to the wounds and learn what I can from them. Black will do for all that.”

 

 

   “Black,” Gilly agrees, pulling garments from the chest and bringing them to Shireen in an ordered bundle, from stockings to underpinnings and overdress, all black save for a bit of gold thread on the sleeves of the dress, and Shireen ignores the way the chill of the room is picking at her flesh with sharp fingers and narrows her eyes at the embellishment, keeping her arms by her sides instead of reaching for the clothing.

 

 

   “You've nothing else black save this that isn't too dirty to wear, and I won't send you out in a soiled dress,” Gilly says defensively, and Shireen keeps her lips thin but does not comment and dresses quickly. She has not worn the colours of her house for a very long time, even to this small extent, and though it might be fitting to do so today when she stands beside her father, it sits ill with her.

 

 

   She says nothing on the subject, though, merely allows Gilly to cloak her once she is otherwise fully dressed and then pulls on the gloves she is handed, before glancing to where the knives still lie and deciding,

 

 

   “Bring them, and I'll see that settled immediately,” and Gilly gathers them up and puts on her own cloak and then follows Shireen from the Tower silently, down to the hall, but they pass a window on their way through which Shireen spies ruddy auburn streaked with paint and paleness in the yard before a hood is pulled over it, and she nearly falters and allows Gilly to walk into her side, shaking her head and blinking hard when Gilly asks,

 

 

   “My lady?”

 

 

   “It's nothing - I thought I saw - nothing. Come,” she says quietly, and ignores the looks and murmurs as they go, keeping her head high and her face impassive until they reach the throng of men surrounding the Lord Commander, and Shireen presses through without difficulty.

 

 

   As expected, those closest to Jon Snow are the wildling leaders, and the Skagosi, the two factions Shireen had depended on taking their final conferences with Snow here rather than outside with the King, for theirs is a different loyalty and they take heed of Jon Snow's word in a way they do not that of her father.

 

 

   It suits her well enough, for it means a smaller audience for what she means to do, and perhaps one less prone to judge and carry tales beyond their own people. Gods know she's no need for any further talk of her to reach the southerners today - it's enough she's heard plenty on the way from the Tower, however hushed and aborted as she's passed.

 

 

   “My lords,” she greets them, not allowing her gaze to linger upon any of them in particular, and letting the motley murmurings of their responses wash over her in a muted wave of tongues and accents, arranging herself to stand by Jon Snow's side with Gilly to her right as he serves her a bow,

 

 

   “Forgive my interruption, I cannot tarry.”

 

 

   “How can we serve your Grace?” Jon Snow asks with that pinch of concern upon his brow and the gruffness of weary responsibility in his voice, and Shireen thinks for a moment that it is odd that he appears to include them all in his offer, when despite the fact that he has been elected to speak on behalf of the Skagosi, it surprises her that they should allow him to use such a phrase without clarifying that they are not extending their service alongside his. Still, he is clearly weary, and since the majority of the Skagosi do not seem to speak enough Common to pick out such nuances in his wording, she supposes he may not be aware of precisely what his words imply, or truly mean to include them by speaking so.

 

 

   She allows herself a slight smile, hoping to reassure him at least even if it has no other use since she knows there's no expression of hers that can lend cheer to this drear and deathly morn, and gestures to Gilly, who moves a little closer.

 

 

   “I ask for nothing but a moment of your time,” Shireen says clearly, choosing her words with care,

 

 

   “So that I might do you a service.”

 

 

   “Your Grace?” Jon Snow murmurs, sounding perplexed and on the cusp of pressing for information, but just by him Shireen glimpses what she came for out of the corner of her eye, and she turns to relieve Gilly of her bundle, tossing back the furl of cloth it was carried in and drawing back with the knives in her own hands.

 

 

   “These were brought to my attention last night,” she says with as much neutrality as she can while retaining her graciousness, taking care to address no one person but to let her voice carry just far enough,

 

 

   “It would seem they were misplaced. No doubt they will be missed, today of all days. Perhaps I could trouble you to see that they are returned to their rightful owner.”

 

 

   “Your Grace, I don't - ” Jon Snow begins, as the wildling nearest Gilly shrugs carelessly after a brief, interested glance at the blades and moves aside, and Shireen holds out the knives to be seen properly by all present, adding as she does although she doesn't look at Snow to do so,

 

 

   “I thought perhaps they might belong to one of your guests, Lord Commander, forgotten in the commotion.”

 

 

   She turns her head ever so slightly more towards the Skagosi than the wildlings, and regards them as a whole rather than fixing her attention on individuals, but she is rewarded by the sight of the eldest's eyes narrowing and the one closest by him - far younger but with much the same look -widening his eyes in turn and muttering some low, harsh sound she does not understand, and then the young Stark shoulders past them from where he stood looming as though in wait, and reaches for the knives Shireen is holding loosely.

 

 

   No cloak over his shoulder today, and no shield that she can see though many of the others carry theirs, and his face is painted differently than it was when last she saw him - thick streaks of black hollowing his eyes and making the green of them glow bright and piercing, and she feels their intensity too deeply, just as she feels the heat of his hands despite the gloves she wears when he relieves her of the knives and sheathes them on his own belt, gaze never leaving hers, and despite the hubbub of everything around them she thinks she can hear her own breathing louder than anything else and she has to work to keep it regular and steady, for even though he's no closer than is still perfectly proper given he's taking something out of her grasp directly, his presence feels heavier than it did yesterday and the sharpness of his regard more profound and invasive.

 

 

   “There,” she forces past uncooperative lips, feeling drained in a way she shouldn't when he's moved away to where he stood previously, nodding to the Skagosi and then the wildlings in turn before stepping back and saying,

 

 

   “My lords - thank you for your time. I wish you well.”

 

 

   She retreats with Gilly flanking her without further word, making for where she sees a cluster of lords surrounding her father and hears his voice, but she cannot ignore Gilly's low, private,

 

 

   “So he's the one,” though Shireen neither slows nor makes any move or sound to confirm it, and not until she is beside Davos does she speak again, and then only in response to his greeting.

 

 

   Shireen takes her place by Davos just in time, it would seem, for Stannis is clearly giving the last of his orders to the accumulated lords, and Shireen already knows precisely what he intended to tell them and how all will go here, so she keeps her face blank and her back straight and simply waits, and when the time comes she follows her father and Davos outside to the walkway and allows Davos to subtly place her just between them, feeling Gilly at her back where she's placed a comforting hand, as the King addresses the yard and all those about to pass beyond the gate.

 

 

   “You all know what you'll be facing beyond this Wall,” the King states without preamble to the masses,

 

 

   “And you all know what has to be done. So go; do your duty.”

 

 

   From her position Shireen cannot see the gates being opened but she can hear it, and she can hear the calls of lords to their men, of leaders to their people, and of hundreds of feet beginning the march through the Wall, and there is a press around her where others taller than her lean to see the better - something that will not avail Shireen given her height, and does not have her interest when she knows she will shortly be joining the King upon the Wall itself to look down upon the battle, and so she withdraws slightly, nodding to Davos to reassure him that she will not go far in the crush, and reaches behind her to take Gilly's hand.

 

 

   Shireen draws her along, too, and they retreat somewhat back over the threshold of the hall so they will not be in the way of the march outward, but Shireen is separated from Gilly by the crowd of wildlings leaving their audience with Jon Snow and moving to join those going beyond, and so for a moment Shireen is hidden behind the doorframe with a clear view of Jon Snow himself pushing through some wildlings back towards the Skagosi from earlier who seem to be in heated private conference, and she sees him grab his brother's arm and pull him around to do some berating of his own, but all Shireen can make out is the words,

 

 

   “ - _done_ \- told you - _be careful!_ ”

 

 

   She can see the effect it has, though, the way the eldest of the Skagosi puts his own heavily inked hand on the young Stark's shoulder as if to restrain him when his entire body goes rigid and he snarls down at the considerably shorter Snow who stands his ground and continues to glare at him with a set mouth.

 

 

   She also sees how the other Skagosson at the Stark's back who has enough of the eldest's look to be a close relative of his rests his free hand upon the hilt of his knife, and Shireen is briefly afraid that Jon Snow has made a move he will regret by challenging his brother so openly, whether perhaps he is cautioning him against going beyond the Wall at all - for which Shireen finds she cannot blame Snow, not when his brother is all that remains of the North's best hopes and is barely wearing light leather armour besides by the look of it -

 

 

   It hadn't occurred to her until just now, the significance of what he said yesterday. The first wave is going beyond the Wall, and may not return, and he always meant to be part of it.

 

 

_He does not even have a shield, that she can see._

 

 

   The understanding catches at her throat, and she is almost tempted to press forwards through the clamour and join Jon Snow in remonstrating with his brother in this, demanding he not go, or that he at least go better armed and shielded, for the love of light -

 

 

   He laughs, bright and sharp and uncaringly, bringing a sour grief to the Lord Commander's face Shireen has never known it to contain, and he takes his arm from Snow's grip as if it were nothing, and shakes his head at him in a flash of teeth and blurring paint which bears no resemblance to the easy smiles of yesterday, and despite the noise Shireen hears his voice through all else that wars for her attention, and it freezes her where she stands.

 

 

   “It's not your choice,” he says, and Shireen can see the shock in Jon Snow's eyes, and she feels an echo of it in herself, and a growing desire to intervene and protect his brother for him regardless of what the reckless youth may want, and so strongly does she feel it that her feet carry her towards them before she has had a chance to breathe and reconsider her actions, and so when the Stark lad wrests himself free of Jon Snow and turns away, Shireen has placed herself in his path before she knows it, and for just a moment she feels keenly that she has the upper hand purely by clearly not being an expected obstacle, until it is overcome by that same ruthless focus he seems to apply to all that he does, but she holds her ground and entirely ignores Jon Snow and the restless Skagosi flanking the Stark lad.

 

 

   “Was I not clear?” she finds herself asking, though in the tones of a sentence being passed, orders disappointed and seemingly unheeded, and there is a curious edge of wrath and hunger to his intent green gaze where it clashes with her own.

 

 

   Even when he inclines his head to her, he does not drop his stare, and whether or not she only fancies she sees the challenge there, what she does see is a disregard for his safety, and that more than any disregarding of her instruction to keep himself whole is what brings her fury to the fore and makes her tone hard and cold.

 

 

   “ _Be safe,_ ” she commands, all her own focus brought to bear on the young Stark, and though she knows she is small and plain and there is nothing regal about her looks, nothing to arrest the eye but curious ugliness, when he bends his neck enough to take his eyes off her, she feels more a queen than she has ever done, feels the weight and reality of her power in more than name when he acknowledges her quietly as,

 

 

   “ _My princess_ ,” and what she hears is 'little queen'.

 

 

   It is no more than Devan has so often called her - what Davos calls her still and always - _just_ an acknowledgement of her title, their allegiance to her and her father, it should be innocuous, it should be a meaninglessly formal acceptance that she has spoken and a confirmation that she has been heard and understood, but it is not.

 

 

   Whether that is apparent to anyone else, she can't say, for she is consumed by the sudden shock of this uncrowned king, this wild, hungry-eyed creature dropping his gaze for her even though he is so tall her spine aches to look up at him, and hear him name her _his little queen_.

 

 

   It isn't even that there's any familiarity in his voice, for there isn't, which almost shocks her more - there is nothing in his tone to suggest any joke, or any improperly over-familiar weight to the way he delivers the phrase, but even so it is jarring, unsettling, for she is _not_ his princess - _not_ his little queen. She is nothing to him but an ally at best and a southern lady whom he could comfortably ignore and even casually despise within his right and by virtue of his upbringing at worst.

 

 

   She should be nothing to him. His people do not serve. They've bent no knee, they do not recognise the iron throne, or southern crowns.

 

 

   They don't care for southron princesses, Gilly said, what feels like years ago now, but just as clearly Shireen hears the assurances given by Jon Snow.

 

 

   They recognise _her_. They have chosen to, like they have chosen to be here.

 

 

   **_Maybe to die here_** , she recalls, his easy smile, no fear, no apprehension at the thought.

 

 

   He told his brother it was not Snow's choice to make, she thinks distantly. This seems to be another choice he has made for himself without the counsel of others to influence him.

 

 

   She wonders if he will keep to it as he appears set to keep to his decision to go to his potential death this morning.

 

 

   “We understand each other,” she finds herself saying, her tongue unpolished over the words his fellows are sure not to mistake, and he raises his eyes to hers again.

 

 

   They burn with something she'd call madness, or even magic, if she hadn't seen both for herself and knew this to be something else. Older and deeper. Primal.

 

 

   Beyond her, where her back is turned, there is a sound of drums she does not recognise, and it brings a shadow into his face and a prickle to her skin, and sets the hands of the two possibly related Skagosi, the oldest and the one nearer the Stark's own age, upon his shoulders - a sign that it is time.

 

 

   His tongue passes over his lips and leave them red, and when he grins at her this time, his teeth seem sharper than before.

 

 

   “If I die, sing of me,” he asks her, throat harsh with a terrible anticipation she cannot share, a base delight in the prospect, and she holds his gaze through the burning.

 

 

   “Return, and I will sing for you,” she tells him, low and hard under the call of the drums echoing off the ice of the Wall and making a music with the footfalls of hundreds.

 

 

   Outside, a horn sounds like the howling of storms over the sea, and in that moment, his eyes move from hers to look over her head, dancing, and his comrades sweep him along with them and past her, and then he is gone, and Gilly is clutching at Shireen's arm with hard fingers and feverishly murmuring,

 

 

“ - couldn't find you - it's time - ” and Shireen hears Jon Snow's perturbed, husky voice beg her,

 

 

   “Your Grace, a word, please - ” but Shireen is already away with a clean-cut,

 

 

   “Not now,” and she keeps her head high as she strides towards the winch, resisting the urge to keep step with the drums.

 

 

   Women, she sees - it is the Skagosi women, sounding out the march to battle, the resonant thrum of blood pounding through veins and strengthening limbs, some bare and already steaming in the icy chill, holding their strange, hollow-framed instruments half-aloft, using their fingers to play on the queerly pale, thin-stretched skins -

 

 

   It _is_ skin, she realises, as Gilly's nails dig into her arm and she uses her weight to try and push Shireen forwards, alongside the line of men marching through the great gate.

 

 

   Those designs in the tanned hide of those drums are too like to the ones inked so finely into the Stark lad's flesh, the fingers of the oldest Skagosson who led him from her sight.

 

 

   Their women are playing a tattoo of death upon the tattooed skins of the dead.

 

 

   Shireen stops in her tracks, hardly heeding Gilly's desperate plea for them to keep moving, that the King is waiting, but the sound of the drums is stronger, and its pull is more compelling.

 

 

   The drummers are wreathed in smoke, she sees, not just the damping from overheated bodies, and their hair drips thickly red, as if they've washed their braids in gore. Shireen wonders if they walked here from their camp like that, or if it is something they contrived to do here, in the yard, as the southerners began to walk through the Wall, for the yard cannot hold all those they are sending, and she knows the King insisted his people go first, that the wildlings would follow them, and the Skagosi bring up the rear.

 

 

   Shireen knows the plan is for them to form a line of three groups once they have passed Beyond, and then advance on the enemy. The wildlings are on the march, now, and the Skagosi will be soon after them, but for now, they are gathered en masse before the drummers, swaying in time with a music played upon the remains of the dead, a mimicry of heartbeats climbing to crescendo, passing around vessels of bone full of something which smokes cloyingly in the thinness of the cutting cold air.

 

 

   This is not pageantry, Shireen realises - this is not for the benefit of the gawking southerners, or to court the distaste of the free folk; their focus is wholly inwards. This is ritual. They are preparing for death.

 

 

   Those who breathe deeply from the bone bowls look entranced, more than one she can see dips their fingers into the embers and brings up the ash to smear across their already-painted faces, and once a bowl has passed across one line, those who partook set their shields to bear and take up the drum-beat with their hands upon them.

 

 

   She cannot see the ones who stand closest to the drummers, but that is where the greatest activity is, and the most smoke and vapour rises from there, and from there as well the first cry goes up, a wordless, eldritch shriek that tapers into a howl which seems to build on itself as it reverberates between the Wall and the stone of the keep, and what seems an echo at first soon reveals itself to be other voices rising in the same sound, like a screaming gale.

 

 

   The last of the wildlings are passing through the gate, and the Skagosi begin to add the thunder of their footfalls to the pound of their fists and weapons on shields, the drumming hands, but they are mostly turned the wrong way save for a few nearest the departing free folk, who are turning their faces towards the oncoming fight, eyes blazing in blackened and bloodied faces, as if it were they who were a damned army of the dead risen.

 

 

   A single horn sounds, and the howling is silenced, replaced by a handful of voices only, snarling and snapping like beasts, and the sound becomes a chant that Shireen cannot understand, intoned once by those few and then taken up immediately by all the others.

 

 

   If they were not who they are, Shireen would think it a simple marching song, something meant to keep them in step, guide their progression and steel their hearts, for it is not complex in its construction and its rhythm is perfectly attuned to a brisk and relentless march, but the almost blissful clarity on the faces of those on whom she can make out expressions belies that, and she is not so sure that it is not instead some form of prayer.

 

 

   The drummers push through the crowd, armed she sees, just as well and heavily as the rest of them, but the first who follow them are the ones who were positioned directly before them, the group who began the howling, unnatural sound of before.

 

 

   They are all, Shireen sees, attired more lightly than those who let them pass through and move forward first - more in the manner of the Stark lad than the Skagosi who stood with him speaking to Jon, who took him out here. Barely any armour. Some of them are bare to the waist, even, and painted more heavily than the others, and almost all of them are well-covered with those inked designs.

 

 

   Many of them also bear horrific scars, most of which are highlighted by paint or ash or more designs scored into their skin - like targets, she thinks, or else proudly borne badges of honour.

 

 

   They are all chanting the same prayer-like dirge, but the ones at the fore seem more generally animated. It is in their faces that Shireen sees true battle-lust, and they move in step with all the rest but seem to her like slavering beasts barely restrained by leashes, ready and yearning to be released to do their worst.

 

 

   Warg-warriors, she has heard some of the free folk whisper of those come from the black isle - that what makes them truly frightening foes is that they are not human at all, but animals chained in the guise of men and women, ever hungry, never sated except in blood. That this is why they feast on their enemies, and take delight in their slaughter.

 

 

   Seeing this, she can almost believe it.

 

 

   The drummers stare straight ahead as they march towards the gate, and the strangely animalistic movements of that first line to follow them almost gives the impression that if they were to falter, or break step and part enough to allow them through, that group would charge forward without a second thought into whatever lies ahead, joyfully.

 

 

   Shireen sees green wildfire eyes in ash-hollowed sockets and ruddy hair in their very midst, at the very fore, and flinches.

 

 

   It's the yielding Gilly needs to drag Shireen close by her and across the walkway to the winch, though Shireen is barely paying attention to what her feet are doing, or the fact that she can feel Jon Snow right at her back, and she continues to watch the Skagosi march Beyond even once Gilly has pressed her in beside Davos and the King, clinging to her arm in terror, for she is afraid of this ascent, but Shireen finds that she is numb to all but the chanting below, the clanging of shields and the ring of death-drums under her skin and heating her blood, making it sing.

 

 

   She is not afraid. She is exhilarated.

 

 

   She feels a brief instance of confused shame over that, even a quick flicker of concern that perhaps she inadvertently inhaled some of that smoke rising from the Skagosi horde, but no.

 

 

   There's no need to be worried over that - they wouldn't expose themselves just before battle to something which could sicken or weaken them.

 

 

   And there's no cause to feel shame in being moved by prayers designed to inflame the senses and stir the heart - they are at war with a fell enemy, one which they must destroy lest they themselves be destroyed.

 

 

   There is a peace in hearing and seeing that they are sending a force to meet such an enemy which might make even wights hesitate.

 

 

   Gilly hides her face discreetly in Shireen's fur-lined hood until the winch reaches the top, and then she is first to disembark, pulling Shireen with her and thus breaking Shireen's view of the march Beyond, but that is no matter, because in the next moment Shireen is in line with Davos and her father, and Jon Snow and his people, looking out over the field of battle and the three prongs of their army grouping themselves in a line ready to advance.

 

 

   The chant continues.

 

 

   Beside her, she can hear her father grinding his teeth, and she thinks it is because he is seeing what she is.

 

 

   The wildlings, in mid-field positioning, have no structure to their formation - there is no real attempt at ranks, and it disturbs her, because all this was discussed beforehand, there were endless strategy councils.

 

 

   Beside them, to the left, the southerners fare no better - from above, their carefully arranged ranks seem disorganised beside the wildling faction, the traditional arrangement is not closing the line on their right, leaving a wide gap between them and the free folk. A gap which the enemy could easily use to their advantage. The line cannot break. They cannot afford to be outflanked. If the enemy advance through the tree-line as expected, there should be no issue with the agreed plan, but Shireen sees that already there is. The reluctance of the southern flank on the left to stand truly alongside the free folk represents a chink in the plan's armour, and there does not seem to be any attempt to better it.

 

 

   In fact, worryingly, they are drawing further apart, the wildlings advancing more haphazardly but far more certainly than the southerners, creating a widening gulf between them. It strikes hard at Shireen's heart to see her people hold back for fear when they have sworn to stand with the North. The shame of it fills her mouth with bile.

 

 

   The fear for what this will mean for the assault clenches her stomach like a vice, though, and that is her greater concern. If the three forces cannot form a line much less hold it, they will be overrun. Separated, they are each too vulnerable, too exposed. They will be surrounded and devoured.

 

 

   Vaguely, Shireen realises that Gilly is clutching her arm so hard that there will be bruises there later, and she knows it will sadden her to see them, but it is of too little consequence in this moment to attend to.

 

 

   The right flank is forming.

 

 

   It is precise. Its advancement is an organic thing, like a rivulet of blood cutting a path in liquid heat over a hard surface lightly coated with snow.

 

 

   In the wide open of the plain, the drums are even more eerie than they were when the sound was confined by the keep and the Wall, feeding on itself. On this side, it seems to mingle with the flow of the chanting and reach out towards the trees like a challenge, a statement of intent, relentless and unending.

 

 

   Shireen doesn't know whether it is the fault of everything she has heard of them, or some unconsciously half-formed and badly-informed private opinion of her own which leads her to be surprised that the Skagosi flank's movements look well-practiced, tight formations speaking of trained, strategically minded warriors well-led.

 

 

   She has seen reputable sellsword companies manoeuvre less efficiently on battlefields than this, and it impresses her, but it also makes her wonder if this is another way in which the generally accepted view of them fails in accuracy; surely no society of savages who cannot and will not cooperate even with their own kind could march out like this.

 

 

   Davos presses something into her free hand, and she takes it blindly before realising that it is his lens tube, and then she glances up at him to see that his eyes are trained on the tree-line, and she puts the device to her own eye to follow suit.

 

 

   Something has disturbed the birds among the trees, caused them to rise up from them and take wing in an immense, dark, flurrying cloud against the starkly white sky in the moment of Shireen's inattention, and she fixes her enhanced sight on the disturbance, noting that the animals do not return to their hiding places among the boughs and branches.

 

 

   They are not one large flock of crows or any other one type of bird - this is all those who were present in the woods there, fleeing something large and terrifying enough to set them all to flight at once, and to make their escape as a collective. Their various cries clash with the drumming and the chant, as the birds turn in the air and fly directly towards the Wall.

 

 

   They pass overhead within moments, agitated and unnaturally close in flight given they are all of differing kinds.

 

 

   Shireen keeps the lens tube focused on the trees even when the great, cacophonous mass of wings and fear casts its shadow over her and then fades with the sound as the birds flee into the woods behind her and beyond the keep instead.

 

 

   There are shapes moving in the distance, melting into view between trunks and stepping into the light of the gap between Wall and forest.

 

 

   Too many shapes, Shireen thinks.

 

 

   Beside her, Davos is murmuring to her father, his voice grim, but in her ear Gilly's voice is thin and strained and far more urgent, hissing,

 

 

   “What are they _doing?_ ” and Shireen adjusts the lens tube and sweeps it over the field, searching for the source of Gilly's consternated query.

 

 

   It is not difficult to spot, once she has refocused on their own lines.

 

 

   There is a line now, is what Gilly has seen and is wondering at, but not the line that was agreed, not the formation the King plotted so meticulously, that Snow relayed to the men, that the lords at last agreed to for this push against the enemy lurking just beyond the trees and too close for comfort.

 

 

   The free folk and the southerners have advanced further, still in roughly the positions of before, but the Skagosi drummers and that first line of fighters have overtaken them, taken the fore.

 

 

   If Shireen were to attempt to form an explanation for Gilly, she might say that they have assumed the lead, but it is more complex than that.

 

 

   To her, reading the field through the lens tube with closer sight than is naturally available, Shireen sees that having a barrier even of only two people several paces in front of themselves appears to have emboldened the southerners to quicken their step and adjust their line to move closer to the free folk faction. Whether it is because it provides a point of focus, or because the Skagosi who have placed themselves there represent something the southerners are wary of, she cannot tell, but it has had the effect of the southerners closing ranks finally with the free folk at their side, and they are now moving in step as an unbroken line.

 

 

   To the right, the Skagosi's main force have also closed ranks with the free folk, though it is distressing to see how much better ordered they are, but Shireen puts that from her mind to closely observe the curiosity that is that first, odd line of drummers and those barely-armoured Skagosi coming to a halt midway between the Wall and the wood, and thus halting the entire progression.

 

 

   The drums stop. The chanting stops. Shireen hears a distance-thinned shouting from among the southerners, no doubt wondering at this decision, and she sees a ripple of forward motion aborted among the southern faction, causing disarray, but from above, she can see what they have done.

 

 

   This was not agreed upon, but they have provoked the southerners and the free folk to stand together by leading them from the fore, and pressed them from the right to form a proper line, and now they have halted them midfield, close enough to the forest to appraise the responding advance of any enemy, but not so close that they will be overwhelmed by a sudden outpouring of Walkers from the trees and have no room to fall back or push forward as needed.

 

 

   Once, twice, thrice the drummers pound the skins. Someone sounds a horn.

 

 

   Again, the drummers count three. This time, Shireen hears a horn-sound from the left join the one rising from the right. A southern horn.

 

 

   A third time, they count three. This time, when the horns mingle, the free folk join them, only with battle cries, harsh and wild, ringing in the chill.

 

 

   Shireen looks to the trees and sees the wights assembling, a long, unbroken line seeping through from the dark forest, and grits her teeth.

 

 

   From Beyond, a lone wolf howls long and clear.

 

 

   The Others charge.

 

 

   Shireen's enhanced sight sees the blurring speed of them, the unnatural lights of their eyes, and she adjusts the lens tube quickly to observe her own army - the drummers have stepped back from the front, back into the Skagosi flank, and that first fell line of fighters has moved aside, no longer in front of any but their own kind, and her breath catches in her throat when she sweeps her one-eyed gaze across the entire line and sees that the southerners have faltered back as a result, shrinking in on their own force, whereas the free folk have surged forward to meet the enemy head-on.

 

 

   The Skagosi do not move from their place on the left except to firm their ranks, bring up their shields as one smooth-working engine of war, and brace against the first wave of foes.

 

 

   When it comes, Shireen sees, it truly breaks upon them like storm-tides over cliffs, the initial shattering of Others by obsidian-tipped spears stabbing past the barricade of shields creating the effect of a sudden, extremely localised blizzard on their side of the battle, and she has only time to think what became of the shield-less, lightly-clad and much-willing Skagossons, when she sees them.

 

 

   The first line of the shield-wall drops a pace and dips as if they are going to one knee, and the second line rises up, bearing those barely-guarded, heavily-armed warriors up and over the front, propelling them forward and into the midst of the enemy.

 

 

   Shireen hears herself utter a sharp cry.

 

 

   _They cannot be sacrificing them like this,_ she thinks with horror, _is that why they breathed so deeply of the smoke, to drown the fear of their fate?_

 

 

_Is this what battle means to them - an elaborate ritual sacrifice?_

 

 

   But no - not a single one falls. Instead they cut whirling inroads through the Others for a few strides forward, and then fall back, swallowed by the shields of their comrades, only for it to be repeated in the next moment.

 

 

   Their formation is like a living thing, she sees with her heart in her throat, ingeniously renewing itself at the fore, drawing back those bracing the barricade of shields against incoming wights to be replaced by fresh arms, un-splintered shields, and with that terrible line of savage, fearless fellows deployed up and over to wreak havoc in the few split seconds it takes for the wall to be refreshed.

 

 

   It is fascinating, captivating, and Shireen watches with her blood pounding in her veins to see such brutal efficiency, the violent spectacle a joy to behold for its competency, its symmetry -

 

 

   Her eye catches on ruddy, light-streaked hair flying up and over, on long legs leaping clear of the safety of shields and past the reach of obsidian-tipped spears, on a black glass blade and a black glass axe -

 

 

   She sweeps the lens tube's viewing away involuntarily, flinching, blinking, and stares directly into a face too clear to be natural, when the tube can only do so much, and too pale to be alive, lit like the silver moon, terrible for such inhuman beauty, a sight not meant for mortals.

 

 

   The eyes are star-fire blue, and they have no end, and nothing in them but dark, cruel cold.

 

 

   Shireen's fingers freeze to the bone, lifeless, and the lens tube falls from them, scoring her dead cheek, but the image stays with her as though the sight were within reach, even when she hides behind her eyelids and turns her back.

 

 

   She hears Gilly call to her as if she were submerged in water, everything distorted and strange and frightening but that face looking into her - seeing her -

 

 

   Shireen staggers forward one step, two, feels hands grab her arms and hold her still, and shakes her head, opening her eyes and fixing her sight straight ahead, on the grey-mist sky, endless and depthless as that vile, invasive gaze, but empty, harmless.

 

 

   “I have seen enough,” she says, feeling herself tremble but hearing nothing in the words, far away as they are, and she realises that she has stumbled back towards the winch.

 

 

   “I have seen enough,” she repeats, harsh now, ice in her blood and caging her heart, and she hardly heeds the cossetting voice of Gilly, feels neither guilt nor pleasure at the unusual alacrity with which the crows flap to her bidding, does not care to note how she comes to be within the iron cage and coming down from the Wall.

 

 

   She keeps her eyes on the vastness of the sky in its comforting nothingness as long as she can, and when the ice wind bites at them she lets tears obscure everything else.

 

 

   She has seen too much.

 

 

   -

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and understanding regarding my injury. It is healing well, but sadly my health fares no better generally speaking, and so I will for now continue to hold to my rule on a three-comment minimum before I update anything at all, so I'm not tempted to do too much for my own good!
> 
> Further, to those of you who participated in and enjoyed Shipweek, a special greeting and thanks, and please do let us all know about it so we can start planning the next one!


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